She hates driving because it gives her too much time to think. At the moment, her thoughts are making her feel increasingly foolish. It’s strangely similar to that queasy feeling she used to get in grade 9 when Mr. Hart would put her on the spot in algebra class. Of course, he didn’t reply to last night’s text. What kind of idiot couldn’t see this coming? Things haven’t changed. He’s still peeved at her. He hasn’t called all summer, and certainly doesn’t want to talk to her anymore. She hurt him, and that won’t get magically fixed. But somehow she thought that he might be willing to overlook all of this for the sake of a bet and a great story.
She and Jim used to make all types of bets. Stupid bets like whether Kelly would wear pink every day for two whole weeks. After four days of either a pink top or pink pants - and sometimes, horror of horrors, a whole pink outfit - Jim had decided to wager 20 dollars she would stick with pink clothes for two weeks. Pam had been pretty sure it wouldn’t happen since Kelly tended to have theme weeks: paisley week, bright yellow week, polka dot week,... She would never stick to the same theme for two weeks. Unfortunately for her, Kelly had spent a full month looking like someone had dropped a bottle of Pepto Bismol on her. Ugh.
One of their last wagers before Jim left for Stamford happened a few days after Michael’s birthday party.
She had walked into the break room, exasperated, to find Jim calmly sipping his grape soda and reading the newspaper.
“What am I gonna do? Michael won’t stop talking about Carol. He keeps calling me into his office. He hasn’t even asked her out yet, but he needs to know what candle scents women prefer to set a romantic mood, what colour of satin sheets he needs to get …”
“You’ll be able to add love expert to your resume. I suggest bringing him a stack of Cosmos to satisfy his curiosity. What say you, Cupid?”
“I’m not sure I’d be safe from embarrassing moments if he has in his hands articles like ‘100 Ways to Blow His Mind’ or ‘Am I Normal Down There?’”
Jim had chuckled in response.
She had continued. “He actually asked me whether he should buy the engagement ring right now to be on the safe side. I’m just waiting for her to drop by the office, and for him to propose in front of everybody before they’ve even gone on a first date.”
“Even Michael knows better than to propose in front of the whole office.”
“Okay, Halpert, if you’re so sure, put 20 bucks on that."
“Deal.”
Pam couldn’t wait to share the proposal that had occurred at the Diwali celebration because she knew that Jim was one of the few people who could truly appreciate Michael’s breadth of ability as far as bold and humiliating moves were concerned. Plus, both she and Jim took bragging rights to bets they won seriously.
After waiting a whole day without getting a reply, she now feels like an idiot. Of course he doesn’t care about all of this anymore. He’s put Scranton behind him.
She pulls into her apartment building’s parking lot, slams the car door, and heads inside.
______________________
He can’t sleep. It’s 2 a.m., and he just keeps tossing and turning. He’s exhausted, and a headache is still gnawing at him. He’s tried everything to sleep. Sitcom reruns and boring newscasts didn’t do him in. He’s apparently neither hungry, thirsty nor horny. The problem is Pam, of course. He could recognize that restless, can’t stop thinking about her sign anywhere.
He really thought he had put this nonsense behind him. After he got her text message, he had gone about his whole day without thinking about her. Nothing. If he had learned anything in Scranton, it was the art of repression. However, his head hitting the pillow had been the moment for all those thoughts to come popping back up, bouncing around like tennis balls. It’s a fierce match too, something akin to a Federer/Nadal meet up.
He just hates himself for even considering answering her message. She hadn’t bothered calling him to tell him she had called off the wedding. He even had to hear from Michael that she was dating. DATING. So Pam ever dating him? Clearly not happening. So why does he want to torture himself by contacting her?
But maybe it could be different. He is far from Scranton. He is leading a different life. If anything, it may just be the closure he needs. He really should talk to her.
He reaches for his cell phone on his night stand. He flips it open. “Need explanation. Call me. 203 555 4257.” He hits “send” quickly before he changes his mind, and places the phone back besides his lamp.
Who is he kidding? He knows telling her to call him is a stupid idea, but he just wants to hear her voice. He turns off the light, pulls on his bed covers, and falls asleep within 30 seconds.
