When she’d been married to Gould, she always felt like an obligation to him. The “I love you” at the end of phone calls felt perfunctory and rote. He only took her hand when they were running late or he was sucking up to one of his bosses at some cocktail party. Flowers only came on her birthday and their anniversary. Something his secretary picked out. She’d married him anyway, which was the saddest part of all.

With Michael everything was completely different. Michael Scott was many things—many, many things--but he was always a gentleman with her. It struck her as funny that the professional thorn in her side (until recently) had instinctively treated her better than her ex-husband.

He loved to hold her hand. It had been one thing in Jamaica. There was always enough rum, enough sunsets, enough sex to make her feel completely free and loose. In Manhattan, in the early morning (he never slept past 8:00 A.M.) he’d taken her hand as they walked down the street towards the diner for breakfast. It was the most natural move in the world. He never even looked down. He didn’t have to.

She’d received more flowers in the past three months than the course of her entire marriage. He never showed up empty handed. There was a certain charm in the flowers he brought her from Scranton. They were always something he’d picked up at the local Wegmans before beginning the drive in rush hour traffic. They were wilted by the time they reached her doorstep and she found herself not caring. Never mind that there was a flower vendor on the corner of her street.

When he said, “I love you,” it never sounded like an obligation. Every time Michael said that to her, she could hear in his voice and see in his eyes (when she would let herself look) that he truly meant it with every fiber of his being.

It scared her. It scared her because she answered him back, always internally, never out loud. The expected response—the one he never expected. “I love you, too.”

Out of all the men in her life that she’d mistreated and allowed to mistreat her, Michael Scott was the last man standing—with wilting flowers, an open palm and an open heart.

The egg timer buzzer sounded to signify the end of the five minutes. The walk to her bathroom was slow—tenuous. She was about to find out if they’d been given an obligation to deal with—as a couple.