There was usually comfort in routine, but not that day. She got out of her dress clothes, hung up the brown dress and stole behind the blue one. How many dresses am I going to collect that I can no longer wear? She showered, put clean pajamas on and sat in front of the TV with the remote, her damp hair piled on her head.
She clicked around; there was nothing on any channel that would stop the barrage of thoughts:
I almost left with Roy.
A cooking show. Valentine marathon: all desserts.
Jim was right about one thing, I didn't want that. I just....didn't.
A show about what you're not supposed to wear. They're telling a woman in sandwashed overalls not to wear tights with loafers. Oops.
As if it matters what I wear, as if it ever did.
A movie with a soundtrack full of soaring violins. Synthesized violins.
Yeah, right? I need another reason to cry, some overdone movie. A woman's movie, no less.
A pre-game football show.
This is what I would have been doing at Roy's: trying to keep quiet during the game and planning what to make for brunch. And acting as if I cared about either. Well, maybe not today.....maybe he still would have been on his best behavior for a little longer, but it wouldn't have taken long. Look at last night. It didn't take long for Old Roy to come out.
Bridget Jones' Diary: The Edge of Reason.
Perfect. That's just....perfect.
He doesn't want me anymore. But he doesn't want me to be with anyone else.
And Pam felt it all come crashing down on her. She curled herself even tighter on the couch, put her head on her knees and let the tears come.
Some time later- Pam could not have said if it was minutes or hours- the phone rang. Pam ignored it; it was either her mother asking about the wedding, or....Roy.
Not Jim, though.
He doesn't want me anymore. But he doesn't want me to be with anyone else.
No message. Fine, go away. I don't want to talk anyway.
She rose from the couch, got up to make some tea. She felt hollow, older in every possible way. The tears had not relieved her; they had not brought her the release they so often did.
The phone rang again. She considered checking the caller ID, but almost immediately decided against it. Four rings, then:
"Hi Pam, it's Mom. I guess you're not home? Well, call me when you get a chance. Talk to you later."
Pam took a sip of her tea and settled back on the couch with it. She considered eating something, but knew that she had nothing in the kitchen that would go down. It's an ice cream day. And that's probably all I will eat.
And there's the phone again...Mom!! I'm OK. I'll talk to you later!
She snatched the phone off the counter, checking the ID box. Roy.
"Hey, Pam, pick up the phone OK? I just want to talk to you." There was a pause. "I know you're home, so just pick up." Another pause. "I really want to give us another try, Pam...and I think you want that too, right? Or at least you did last night before......well. Just call me."
That's it; I have to get out of here. I'm going....anywhere. Taking my cell phone, but turning it off.
Pam blindly got clothes from her dresser, shoved her feet in socks and shoes and reknotted her hair. The phone rang again as she emptied and rinsed her teacup. It rang twice while she grabbed her coat from the hallway closet. It rang three times while she put it on; four while she grabbed her purse and cell phone.
The machine picked up.
"Hey, Pam...it's Jim. I'm not sorry about last night. I'm not sorry that I stopped you from leaving with Roy, because I know you didn't want that. I know you're probably really, really angry at me right now anyway, but.....please call me, OK?" There was a pause. He continued more quietly: "I would love to talk to you. Take care."
Pam put her hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and closed it almost noiselessly behind her, just as she always did.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sunday, around noon, and she had nowhere to go, nothing to do...she drove to the mall. She wasn't a leisure shopper; she didn't mind it, but would never choose to shop for nothing in particular, as Kelly seemed to so every weekend. And sometimes, not on the weekend.
She wandered aimlessly through the stores, picking things up, putting them back. Money was tight as it was, she could little afford an extra splurge on clothes or other doodads. Not even decent new shoes. I'll have to stick with my loafers, even if the experts say they're wrong.
Finally she found herself standing in front of the movie theater. She didn't want to see a movie, but the thought of sitting quietly in darkness for two hours, where no one could bother or even see her, appealed to her. She bought a ticket, randomly selecting from a list of choices.
She watched movie after movie that day. She didn't laugh, but sometimes cried during parts she knew were not remotely touching or sad, and often fell asleep in the middle. At the last matinee the usher had to rouse her awake: "Miss? Sorry, the movie's over." She rose, went back out into the lobby and bought a ticket for the next movie, and also a large soda. She hadn't eaten all day. They don't have ice cream at movie theaters, so I'm out of luck there.
Somewhere in the middle of the last showing of the day, close to 10:00, she made the decision not to go into work the next day. She knew that it was so important, so vital to swing her feet over the side of the bed each morning; to put those feet one in front of the other and let the mundanity of life surround her until, someday, she felt like even a shadow of the woman she used to be. Or maybe, the woman she never was...but knew she could be.
But not tomorrow. She could not do it tomorrow. She was going to take one more day to get her bearings, to figure out exactly where she was going to go from here. One more day to collect herself before her art show on Tuesday.
Just as quietly as she had left, she let herself into her apartment. She was in no hurry; she took her coat off slowly, dropped her purse and keys on the counter, slipped off her shoes and socks and thought again about maybe eating something. Finally, after eating a few crackers, she looked over at her answering machine.
Eight messages. Her mom, Roy, Jim....how many times had each of those three called her back?
She never even considered checking. She went to her bedroom, changed quickly, climbed into bed. And once again dropped into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali
© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali