Disclaimer: You know the drill. I own nothing. Not even a paper clip.

Title garnered from a lovely little ditty by Iron & Wine. And this is what I hope to be an equally lovely story about the inner thoughts of Jam during a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

There are times he watches her and has to busy himself with office supplies to keep from screaming. Paper clips, rubber bands, binder holders. Anything to keep his hands busy from where they really want to go.

This day was no different, nothing out of the ordinary, just the occasional muted phone ring or whine of the copy machine, dust collecting on the cheap vertical blinds as the sun streams in.

It’s 2:39. Lunch is long over, and he knows what the other occupants of the office are thinking. They’re hitting that mid-afternoon slump, needing sugar or caffeine, and five o’clock, five thirty, whatever time they dispatch themselves from this place, seems distant.

Not him, though. He doesn’t mind.

His to-do list is light enough, most days, that’s he’s crossed out the final task before the clock hits twelve. Afternoons – whether it’s cinnamon-scented autumn or sleepy, wintry ones that fade into dusk halfway between four and five, with bare, skeletal trees scraping just outside the window – are his favorite times. The season doesn’t really matter.

She’s playing Solitaire. He can tell by the way she’s clicking and dragging the mouse on her desk, her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. He wonders absently if she needs glasses.

After a moment she closes out of the game and leans back in her chair, taking a deep breath. She glances fleetingly at the clock. It’s almost as if she can sense him watching her, because suddenly she puts her hands on her upper arms, rubbing them slightly, as if she’s cold. He’d do anything to remove that pin from her hair. Sometimes he thinks if he could just reach around her, bring his hands close to her warm neck, and let her hair fall freely over her shoulders, all her fears and uncertainty about being with him would be lost along with that hairclip.

As the clock’s hand moves towards 3:30, a mixture of sleep-deprivation and boredom takes over. Time stops, and the rubber band he’s been twirling between his fingers fades away, and suddenly there’s something different around his finger – a hard, cold, gold band. He’s not behind his desk any longer, but on the edge of a lake, his pants rolled up, feet beneath the water. She’s sitting next to him, wearing a half-zipped hoodie, tears standing in her eyes, adjusting something new on her own finger, trying to find the perfect fit.

He sees all this. Not the ticking clock and the opening and shutting of doors, but her. The rest of his coworkers all fade into various shades of gray…

… and suddenly they’re together everywhere, sharing a hot dog at the park, a speck of mustard left forgotten in the corner of her mouth. They’re running through the rain, laughing, as he lifts his jacket over their heads in a feeble attempt to stay dry. They’re in college sweatshirts at a football game, but couldn’t sit together, so they share knowing glances across his sister’s and brother’s laps as she cups a hot chocolate in both hands, like a child. Now he’s walking through the front door of his apartment after a particularly hard day, and it’s dark, she’s standing there, holding a birthday cake full of sparklers, as if she knew, except it’s not his birthday, but it’s like his birthday and the Fourth of July wrapped up into one, and then they’re rolling across his bed and her hair falls over her shoulder onto his chest, and the candles are blown and the cake’s on the floor, and neither of them care.

They’re in line at the movie theater, him excited, her significantly less excited, her entire head nearly hidden behind a giant bucket of popcorn. He sees them at the opera, dressed up and glowing, his right hand in hers, his left hand curled around a coffee, struggling to stay awake. Now they’re sitting in his apartment, old towels wrapped around his shoulders and his hair wet, as she stands over him with scissors, a devilish look on her face.

They’re in bed, some unimportant movie on that neither of them feels like watching. With a sparkle in her eye, her hands disappear beneath the covers and suddenly he pulls her under with him. She doesn’t scream, but he knows very well by now how to perfect his movements until her eyes darken and her breathing quickens, her legs pressing hard into his back. He brushes his hand across his forehead to get his rumpled hair out of the way so he’s able to maintain eye contact. The lock of hair immediately falls right back in his face, and she giggles against him. He tries blowing it out of the way, but to no avail. Finally, she reaches behind her back, unties the hair from her ponytail, and ties the elastic around his hair. “You look like a Sumo wrestler,” she gasps, and they both laugh until their stomachs ache.

After, he tells her about the day when he was eight and saw his dog hit by a car. Or the time in college when he cheated on a Spanish exam that he hadn’t studied for. These are things he still thinks about, sometimes.

They’re fighting, as she stands in their kitchen with a hand on her hip and a dishcloth in the other, his face hidden behind a book he has no intention of reading. She’s yelling, then he puts the book down, a goofy smile behind it, and she breaks down and smiles back, all her anger forgotten. He sees himself in her parents’ house, sitting on an old-fashioned sofa, looking through a photo album filled with photographs of her as a child, one that her other boyfriends had never thought to pick up. He sees himself washing dishes with her mother, shaking hands with her father. And asking them both a question. Happy tears stream down her mother’s face into her mug of tea. Her dad is quiet yet misty, and they hug, all three of them. Then, a quiet walk at twilight with her along the edge of the lake where she used to feed breadcrumbs to ducks as a child. His heart in his throat, palms sweating, his knee is suddenly in the sand, and he’s asking her a question. She laughs, he cries.

Another cake, this one bittersweet chocolate with raspberry filling. She’s feeding it to him, pausing, holding the wedge of confection mere inches from his mouth, a mischievous smile lighting up her eyes. He raises his eyebrows at her, comically begging for mercy. Her smile grows, and she looks beautiful, elegant – a string of freshwater pearls strung about her porcelain collarbone, the lace veil pulled back to reveal perfectly curled hair – as she smooshes the cake into his face. Some of it gets in his mouth, but mostly goes up his nose. Thunderous applause.

They’re in bed, morning on some exotic tropical island. His arm is curled around her, his fingers lightly touching her side. She whispers into his ear, he breathes into her skin, and neither one of them ever wants to leave. They try other activities, like snorkeling or tennis, but each time, they just end up back here.

He sees her sitting Indian-style on their kitchen floor, wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans, papers and paints spread around her in a colorful circle. She’s got paint on her face. He stoops down to talk to her and suddenly, with a swipe of the brush, he has a red nose. Then a yellow forehead. And then a paint war ensues.

He sees himself taking care of her when she has colds, the days of her refusing to let him see her pale and unwell long gone. He makes her soup, checks her temperature, tells her he doesn’t mind if he gets sick in the process. They take walks, joke about moving to some faraway city. And then one day there’s a For Rent sign in front of her apartment.

They move just outside of Harrisburg. They find a house high up on a hill, with a terrace overlooking the city. It's good inspiration for her sketching; the lovely view seems to evoke her inner muse, and she's more creative in those days than ever.

He sees them unpacking boxes, rediscovering old possessions, placing their shoes – her tiny Keds, his Converses, one of which has a broken lace – next to each other, beside the front door. As the movers struggle to fit their mattress through the front door, he cracks a joke to her about christening the bed. She rolls her eyes and pushes him away, but he's knows it'll be a different story entirely once the movers depart.

The hum of an incoming fax jerks him from his reverie. He watches her as she crosses the office, passing his desk, tilting her head to inspect the memo. And then she’s coming towards him, a polite half-smile on her face.

“For me?” he asks, returning the smile.

“Yup,” she says, placing the fax carefully on his desk.

“Thanks,” he says, but she’s already turned, heading back to her desk. She can feel his eyes on her back, burning into her charcoal-gray cardigan, and she blushes helplessly. It’s almost as if he can read her thoughts as she sits and plays Solitaire or pretends to collate. She’s been daydreaming again, this time about their children. Yesterday it was about her pregnancy, and imagining him running through the supermarket at 11 o’clock at night, wandering the aisles until he discovers the perfect flavor of ice cream that she’d requested. Him assuring her repeatedly that she’s not fat, she’s beautiful.

It’s not so much that she knows names, or faces, or the pain of giving birth. They’re just blurry little scenes that float into her mind while she’s doing something innocuous, like driving or pouring a bowl of cereal, or attempting to work.

Today she can almost feel the warmth of the thick, homemade quilt that her grandmother had made for her when she was a baby. It’s pulled over her, almost up to her chin. The morning is cold, but the quilt keeps them all warm. Venturing a hand over to her nightstand, she reaches for the light, then thinks better of it. She likes watching them sleep. Jim’s facing away from her, his arms thrown over his head, always how he sleeps. Between them is a little girl. She can’t see the girl’s face – only her soft, out-of-control gold curls, nestled next to her father’s warm back.

She leans back into her pillow, listens to them breathe. She sees the muscles in his upper back flutter as he stretches. Waking up, as if he knew. Gingerly, so as not to hurt the girl, he turns over, rubs his eyes, and looks at her with the grin she knows so well.

“Hi.”

She sees him with the girl, doing all the stereotypical things. Teaching her to ride a bike, holding onto the handlebars until she begs him to stop. Watching the pink ribbons flutter back in the wind, she learns to do it herself. She paints with the little girl, teaches her to draw, to stir a pot of sauce with a wooden spoon. She makes the girl adorable homemade Halloween costumes, packs notes with her school lunches. She cries, of course, on the girl’s first day of Kindergarten, and he wraps herself around her on the couch without a word, without her needing to tell him to.

She sees them sitting in beach chairs and watch her as she splashes in the ocean, digs sandcastles, invents imaginary universes. They whisper about her at night under the covers, all good things, all the things they hope for. She grows up with a dog, of course, one they watch very closely.

With every moment, with every exchange between her husband and their daughter, she loves him exponentially more. The way he shows her where the forks go in the dishwasher, to how he explains to her the unfortunate demise of her goldfish, to how he hides the fact that he wants to neuter the first boy who broke her heart.

She imagines their girl growing up, finding all of the things she desires, and one day leaving for college.

She sees him sitting beside her, his arm around her, holding her hand, through losing parents and pets and years, enduring health scares and fading eyesight and family reunions. She imagines the two of them, older, old, slightly stooped, wrinkles forming around their mouths, until words are no longer needed, and everything is said with their eyes. They make each other laugh up until the end – which she can’t, and won’t let herself picture. Always, though, they’re together. Never one left behind, without the other. When she allows her mind to wander to it, all she can hear is the wind.

“Pam.”

It’s him, standing in front of her with his bag slung across his chest, looking at her. She blinks, shakes her head a bit, as if to clear it. She realizes there are tears stinging her eyes.

“You okay?”

Sniffling, she smiles and tries to compose herself. “Yup.” She shrugs. “Allergies.”

“Ah. Well, you should get yourself home. It’s six o’clock.” He raises a goofy eyebrow. “Time to get out of here. Run!”

“Definitely,” she says, reaching over and shutting off her computer. Sure enough, the sunlight streaming through the blinds is fading now, disappearing behind the dark trees that line the outer parking lot. “Have a good night, Jim.”

He hesitates, just for a second. “Goodnight, Pam.” He walks towards the door and disappears out into the night.

She takes a deep breath before standing up and stepping into her jacket. It’s okay, after all. Surely, these haunting thoughts will revisit her tomorrow, just like they do every day.

It’s how they pass these endless sleepy, caffeine-starved afternoons.