The bartender hands him another shot.
"Thanks, man," Jim slurs, still not drunk enough after a couple beers and way too many shots. Because anything, even a drunken haze, is better thanr12;
He wishes she could see him now.
"Jim, dude, you need to stop. Go home," the bartender, Jake, tells him.
"I don't live at home," Jim replies, and Jake gives up, moves on like everything else. Jim is stationary. Jim is weak, unstable, unmoving. Jim is the crust on the cap of a toothpaste tube, always there, something you don't really notice until the buildup is so severe that you scrape it off and wash it down the sink, and never think of it again. He's the bug that just wants to go somewhere and be something, but then is crushed against a windshield and smeared and flattened until there's nothing left.
Jim wants her to see him now, what she's done to him.
He thinks it's ironic, how he went all in and she took everything. His heart, his sanity, his life, his job. And how she had done the exact same thing earlier in the evening, except it was only money then.
He'd give her all the money in the world to hear her change her answer.
He wishes she could see him now.
As he downs the rest of his beer (his second, third?) a movement next to him caught his attention.
It's a girl, as usual. She might be pretty--he can't tell. Nothing is pretty to him these days. Just a black and white blur.
"You come here a lot, right?"
Jim nods in agreement, but the movement is vague, as if underwater.
The girl doesn't notice. "Hey, I'm Jenna. Jem, though. If you want." He thinks he sees her bat her eyelashes.
He can't do this. He can't flirt, and act, and pretend nothing's wrong. He can't--
Why not? The darker, angry side of him rebels. We're not together. She's not here. She rejected me. Not cheating. Not cheating. Doesn't matter. Let it go.
Let it go.
"Hey, Jem, I'm Jim." He grins, turning on his auto-charm.
"Oh my god," she laughs. "That is so weird. What brings you here, Jim 2.0? Or would you like to be version one?"
The conversation continues. Jim soon realizes that Jem is actually great company--in some ways, he can pretend she--
No, Jim, he tells himself, don't go there.
The bar is about to close. Just to be masochistic, or rebellious, or to change up his pathetic excuse for a life, or to feel something besides pain, heartache . . . when she invites herself over, he doesn't refuse.
------
Jim wakes way too early the next morning. His head pounds. Groaning, his pulls his eyes open, snaps them shut immediately.
Light. Way too much light. He clambers out of bed, yanks the blinds closed.
As he turns from the window, a flash of black in his sheets freezes him. No, Jim, no. That's not, don't think, just--
Jim looks down. Damn.
Fuck it all to hell.
Boxers . . . boxers . . . where the hell are my boxers?
"Jim?"
The sound startles him. He stubs his toe; the pain mixes with the pounding and for a moment he can't think, until he spots his boxers strewn over his bedside lamp, across the room.
He dives over the bed, grabs the fabric, knocks over the lamp and, with a resounding thump that does not help his headache, slides off the bed and onto the floor.
Quickly, thinking she-who is she, anyway?-is on her way, he scrambles to his feet and haphazardly throws on his boxers.
Nothing. Silence.
Tick, tock. Tick. Tock, tick.
"Erm, uh, hello?" he calls, his voice hoarse.
Tock. Tick.
Deafening quiet.
He examines the lacy black material he had spied in his sheets, picks up a piece of paper lying on top. He randomly wonders if the paper is Dunder Mifflin, before mentally slapping himself and looking upon the number scribbled clearly across the slip, followed by the message:
That was fun. Call me -- Jem.
Jem, that's right. Jem.
And she's not here. But I could have sworn I heard . . . ?
He wouldn't call. He knew he wouldn't. It would be cruel to give her hope that this would go somewhere, would happen again.
Instead, he picks up his phone from the nightstand and speed dials one.
"Hey, you've reached Pam Beesly. Sorry, I can't come to the phone at the moment, but leave me a message and I'll try my best to get back to you."
He doesn't wait for the beep.
He doesn't bother smiling at her voice in his ear.
Instead, he closes the phone with a sharp snap. Instead, he leans against the wall, slides down, looks up at the ceiling. Tries not to cry.
Instead of waiting, he leaves. Instead of living, he survives. Instead of moving on, he stays.
Stationary.
He fails. A lone tear slides down his cheek and drips to the floor. Another follows.
Instead of wiping them away, he leaves them be.
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Short, oneshot, will not continue. First office fanfiction, comments hugely appreciated.
Chapter End Notes:
Review, please?
