Dwight knew Angela could hold a grudge, but he had never seen it in action until now. He didn't realize how hard his job would be if the head of accounting wouldn't talk to him. He'd known she wouldn't like the stripper, he'd known she was tired of the laundry, the errands, the secrets, but he thought she understood his allegiance to Michael. Evidently he was mistaken.
He tries to make it up to her, tries to compliment her outfit. She says "thank you" like she means it, but then he veers right and she's mad again. And then she sits at the end of the pew, where he can't sit with her, next to Roy.
Next to Roy. She's talking to Roy. Laughing at something Roy says, really laughing. Roy, who didn't even go to college and who thinks he's better than Dwight just because he can grow a beard. Roy, who wouldn't appreciate Angela's daintiness, her absolute refusal to ever watch sporting events or the doilies she has all over her house -- doilies she crocheted herself! Roy isn't an alpha male, like Dwight is -- sure, he works in the warehouse, but he thinks Pam's art is sexy and he doesn't know anything about beet farming (Dwight asked once), and a woman -- no, a lady -- like Angela needs an alpha male like Dwight. Dwight's itching to get his crossbow from his trunk and challenge Roy to fight him like a man, but he knows she doesn't approve of violence. So he sits by himself, a few rows forward, and uses his keen Shrute hearing to eavesdrop on them.
She dances with Roy at the reception; barely touching his hand, her other hand light on his shoulder, a foot of space between them. Dwight's miserable; she'd never dare to be so intimate with him in public. Roy is a surprisingly graceful dancer, and Dwight feels a shiver of disgust. Men shouldn't be able to dance. Shrutes take it as a matter of pride that they can't dance. Dwight's tux is uncomfortably tight around his stomach -- Angela's brownies really are delicious, and she makes them all the time -- and uncomfortably tight around his chest; he doesn't know why.
Jim sits down next to him, carrying two drinks. Dwight saw Pam leave earlier; she was mad about Phyllis taking her wedding ideas, and when Roy led Angela onto the dance floor, her eyes had narrowed, her mouth compressed to a nearly invisible line, and she'd spun on her heel and walked out without looking back.
Jim pushes a drink toward him without a word. Dwight normally doesn't drink; alcohol dulls the senses. But today, right now, Dwight's keen senses aren't doing him any favors. And this reception is nothing like the wild. He takes the drink, but leaves it on the table, watching Angela sit with Roy, eating cake.
Karen is sitting across the room too, at the table next to Angela and Roy, her eyes red. Dwight doesn't know how Jim screwed up today, but Jim's never been very good with women. You have to be firm, aggressive. You have to be the hunter. Maybe Dwight should have agreed to that double date after all, show him how it's done. Jim is most definitely not an alpha male. He looks miserable, and he keeps making a show of not looking at Karen, who is resolutely looking anywhere but at Jim, and it's pathetic, and Dwight doesn't get them. Karen's not his type -- sure, she's pretty, and appears intelligent, but he likes ladies who know their place, who don't try to be men -- but he can see how Karen might be attractive to men less secure in their own masculinity. Andy probably loves her.
Dwight wonders if he's a cylon. It would explain a lot -- his athletic prowess, his superior brain power, his inability to keep a good woman like Angela.
"Cheers," Jim says, tilting his glass towards Dwight. He doesn't sound cheerful. Normally Dwight would think Jim was being pathetic, and he is, but Dwight's feeling pathetic too, a feeling made all the more difficult by its rarity. Dwight finally breaks his stare to look at Jim -- his eyes are puffy, his girly hair more mussed than usual. Sighing, Dwight clinks his glass against Jim's.
"Cheers."
Story Notes:
This takes place during "Phyllis' Wedding," but was written beforehand.
Also, a disclaimer: Not mine.
sundancekid is the author of 12 other stories.
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