IV. Light 

Pam draws her feet up onto the couch. The soft bluish glow from her clock tells her that it is very, very late, but she doesn’t really expect to be sleeping any time soon.  

Being reminded of the late hour, however, triggers a yawn, which echoes in the murky pre-dawn stillness of the apartment. It has been many months since she’s minded the silence. She’s grown to embrace it. It is the medium in which she has created a new version of her life. Regret and loneliness have added shadow and depth, but she is proud of the work she has been doing to become strong and self-confident.  

She yawns again, and notices that her eyes feel swollen. She’s sure they are still red from her earlier tears, but she doesn’t mind. They were cleansing tears, honest and clear, perfect for rinsing away the mistakes of the past. She is done crying, now, though. 

A noise in the other room catches her attention, and she turns toward it. She isn’t alarmed; she knows what the noise is. It is, incredibly, the simple, homey sound of someone filling two glasses with water. Hours of talking, laughing, and crying have left two mouths dry, two throats scratchy. A simple dinner date has turned into a night of revelations, of confession and apology and proclamation. There are still things to say, though, so her guest (long overdue) has disappeared into the darkness of the kitchen to get water.  

She fights another yawn as Jim returns to the living room. He looks natural here. He matches and complements the furniture, the knick-knacks, the carefully-chosen artwork. It is as if she has left this negative space specifically for him to fill (and maybe she has). She realizes what the new creation of her life has been missing- she’s given it color and structure and shade, but with a smile and an invitation to dinner, Jim has given it light.

Pam glances at the clock again. It is very, very late- but she is immensely relieved to know that it is not too late.