~~~~~
She heard herself giggle, hum. She didn't make noises like that - maybe it wasn't her. Maybe she was someone else. But she looked down and saw her hand sliding down an unfamiliar torso, and felt herself wonder if this was what he actually looked like. Impossible, of course. She was sure it was her, then, but it was also -
It was deliciously cool. Wherever they were, it was spring and raining outside, green and new. She curled into his body, solid, with a familiar smell of cheap shaving cream and clean laundry. She was sliding her arms around his shoulders, holding her own wrists behind his neck, his hair soft on her pulse points, outwardly being very casual about it, even though she worried that maybe it was too much, too intimate. It seemed like maybe he'd laugh and gently extract himself from her arms. Everything crept to a near halt, the very fabric of time waiting for his verdict on the way she was holding him, until his hands spanned her lower back, warm and broad. That was when she realized that her skin was bare. She laughed again, resting her forehead on him. "Did you know this was happening?" she asked, turning her head so the hair on his chest grazed her cheek.
"What?" Thanks to their proximity, she both heard and felt his voice. He seemed tremendously amused with her.
"You know," she insisted and blushed. He was stroking her spine; long, lazy caresses that made her back arch and her belly kiss his. She pressed her thighs together as one of his big hands covered her bottom, pulled her closer to him. "What are you doing?" she heard her own voice in her head.
"I'm, um," by way of an answer, he turned them so she was on her back. His hand was in her hair, on her breast, and between her legs. He wasn't shy or tentative. He seemed to know her already, even as she marveled at how strange it felt.
"What are you doing?" She repeated.
His mouth was near her ear; his voice soft but abrupt. "I want to fuck you. You know that, right?"
She drew a sharp, surprised breath at his candor. Something disconnected, invaded for a moment, and she thought he was gone, but his hand was there, on her cheek, and he kissed her. As their mouths parted, she said, "oh," and felt him smile.
"Do you want me to?" He was settling his elbows to the sides of her shoulders even as he was asking permission, because he knew that she loved how close he was, even if she was too shy to say it. "Tell me," he murmured.
"I want you to," she managed and he kissed the burn on her cheeks.
The ache between her legs was awful, and the way he spread her and pushed inside made it so much worse. She wanted to laugh, cry, dig her heels into his thighs until she could feel him in her spine.
She laid her hands on his jaw to make him look at her, wanting to say something but unable to remember what it was. His eyes were greener than grass, denying her nothing. She lost track of where their bodies were supposed to be joined, her arousal a hurt that she was impaled upon. She rolled in a way that she shouldn't have been able to if he was in her like that. And, oh, he was in her like that, hand on her hip, his breath an audible, complex sigh at her temple. She heard the shower, down the hall, and panicked, realizing that they didn't have much time before -
Pam opens her eyes, lets her head fall to the side. It's 6:48 and she's on Roy's side of their bed, her pillow having made the trip with her. By 6:50, she's awake enough to be embarrassed. "Weird," she dismisses, trying to laugh and failing, as she kicks the tangled sheet the rest of the way off.
She stretches, tugging on her own fingers as her arms form an arch far over her head. She can feel him in her spine, but she shakes it off, reaching down to her toes. Roy ambles in in his boxers, freshly shaved and smiling. He's going away with Kenny for the weekend; his overnight bag is open and half-packed on the floor. She accepts his kiss, inclining her head, realizing that the kiss in the dream felt utterly different than this. She's impressed with her imagination, her attention to detail, even as she's wondering where she got the idea from, who had kissed her like that in the past.
Roy has turned the television on in the living room, so, as she exits their air-conditioned bedroom, she can hear the weatherman gleefully proclaim that it's going to be "another scorcher today." It's hot in the hallway, sticky in the bathroom, last night's heat never having dissipated thanks to the blanket of clouds that rolled in after sunset, promising rain but never delivering. They're gone now, burning off in the sunrise. Pam stands with her back to the east-facing glass block window in the bathroom, her hair a fiber-optic glow around her head in the August sun. She takes off her tank top, steps out of her underwear, cringing when she sees that they're wet. With her toe, she nudges them into a little ball that she hides under her abandoned shirt before she steps into the shower.
Half past seven and the cicadas are already roaring, so she pulls all of her still-wet hair back, dressing in a cotton skirt, a polo shirt, and sandals. She has learned to expect very little from the office air conditioner this time of year, finding ways to stray from the dress code that don't seem totally inappropriate.
Pam eats a piece of toast and half a glass of orange juice, sitting tailor-style in the easy chair while Roy has his cereal at the coffee table. During a commercial break, as he ties his boots, he asks if they can take separate cars to work. He wants a head start on his trip with Kenny. "Sure, of course," she nods.
"And you're sure you don't want to come?" his tone is sweet, teasing.
"Yep. Don't worry," she smiles. "Have fun." She doesn't want a sunburn, bad beer, and the feeling of having had no weekend at all. She sees herself spending a lot of time in her cool bedroom, sleeping, drawing, reading.
Her little car has no air conditioning, so she cranks the driver and passenger side windows down, adjusting her skirt so her legs won't touch the hot vinyl seat. Roy honks his goodbye and she waves. The warm air feels good on her face as she drives. She turns the radio up a little louder, takes the long way to work.
~~~~~
Jim is wearing a green striped polo shirt and tan pants, looking for all the world as if he is about to go play a round of golf. It's an absurd thought - she cannot imagine him caring for a sport that requires so much stillness. She thinks of the frenetic grace of basketball and the way he made it look simple, like dancing or walking. She thinks of how many years it must have taken him to learn such ease as she studies the back of his head. He's checking his messages, turning on his computer, unaware of her.
Michael enters, in a shirt with an aggressively tropical pattern, cargo shorts, and sandals. He beams at everyone's short sleeves and shining faces. "Casual Friday," he proclaims, as if such things are supposed to be spontaneous.
"Michael," Phyllis's voice is more wilted than usual. "Is someone coming to look at the air conditioner today?"
Michael looks to Pam. All heads turn her way and she looks back at Michael. "They said the earliest they could come is next Tuesday. I told you that." A faint, collective groan goes up and she weakly says, "sorry." Jim only shrugs, rolls his eyes in a way that clearly does not implicate her.
Ten minutes later, she feels a tiny breeze on her left temple. Jim is approaching casually, waving a paper fan, an accordion of legal-sized 20 lb. paper, gathered at the bottom with a large paper clip. She leans enthusiastically into the patch of air he's disturbing and he chuckles.
"I guess we had the same idea this morning." She looks up at him, alarmed, and he points at his shirt with the fan.
She's not quite able to smile. "Oh, yeah. Right." Her eyes flick to his, then away, quickly.
He tilts his head. "You okay, Beesly?"
The smile finally comes, thirty seconds late. "Oh, I'm fine. You know, the heat."
He nods. "I am definitely making an overpriced iced coffee drink run very soon. You in?"
"Walking or driving?"
"Not sure yet." He reaches down and lays the fan near her hand. She traces the slick curve of the paper clip with her index finger. "Did you see Dwight this morning?"
Pam looks past Jim. Dwight is seated at his desk, his unwavering attention focused on his computer screen. He is wearing a yellow shirt, a burgundy tie, and glasses. "What?"
Jim taps on the counter, opens his mouth. "He - you know what? Just wait for it."
~~~~~
Forty-five minutes later, as Pam is drawing sprawling knots of daisies on her fan with a ball-point pen and a yellow highlighter, Dwight heads for Michael's office. Jim turns quickly, half-raising his right arm, index finger extended, to catch Pam's eye. She looks up and is confronted, briefly, with the pasty, bony nightmare of Dwight's nearly hairless legs, his khaki shorts, his white gym socks with forest green rings, his Birkenstocks. Her eyes bulge, meet Jim's. The sight is enough to momentarily knock from her head all recollections of the imagined feel of his back under her hands.
"I think it's time for coffee," he says.
"God, yes," she replies.
~~~~~
Stanley and Phyllis want iced tea. Michael wants an Italian soda with pina colada syrup. Creed, who is wearing a cardigan, wants hot chocolate. Oscar wants an iced chai with soy milk. Jim carries the list and Pam tucks everyone's money into her purse. They walk on the north side of the street, where at least there are a few drooping shade trees. She cools herself with her half-completed fan, dragging her feet. Jim stuffs his hands in his pockets. He's wearing sunglasses and slip-on canvas sneakers, a trickle of sweat slipping down from his hairline. They pass a chain-link fence sagging under the weight of a mass of morning-glories, their narrow, fragrant throats turned up to the sun, indifferent to the heat. It's a quarter-mile to the coffee shop. Somehow, the walk takes fifteen minutes.
~~~~~
Back at her desk, Pam spreads out the fan again, adding a lattice of morning glories around its edge. She begins filling the spaces between the flowers with green highlighter. She lowers her head to suck on the straw in her iced tea without picking up the sweating plastic cup. The cool liquid rushes down her throat. She glances up at Jim and finds him staring abstractedly at a point somewhere just over her head. He notices her look, raises one eyebrow in greeting, and turns back to his desk.
~~~~~
Jim's brother, an unknown and somewhat mysterious quantity named Tom, is passing through town on his way to Manhattan. Jim leaves at noon with a wave and a request that Pam call the cops if he doesn't come back in an hour. She points her highlighter at him and asks him if the company has his dental records for identification purposes.
In the break room, there is a copy of People magazine open on the table between Phyllis and Meredith, who are withering in the heat, each with their own paper fans. Meredith's is a manila file folder; Phyllis's a brochure. Pam has rubber cemented her original sheet of paper to another dark red sheet, its increased structural integrity allowing it to move more air. She flicks it up at her throat while she chooses a soda.
When Pam sits, Phyllis nods a hello and Pam cranes her neck to look at the magazine while she unwraps her sandwich. She hums a sort of noncommittal approval as she takes her first bite.
Meredith points at Brad Pitt. "God, look at him."
Pam shrugs. "He's handsome, but he's not my type, I guess?"
Phyllis leans in a little closer. "So who is your type?"
Pam feels herself flush. "Well, Roy."
Meredith rolls her eyes, lifting her hair off her neck, and Phyllis says, "We know that, honey."
Kelly hurries through the door, bobbling a Lean Cuisine, her sundress a midnight blue bell around her knees. "Oh, is that the new People? Turn to page 78!" They do, and Usher smirks up at them from the glossy page. "God," Kelly sighs, tenderly coaxing the magazine toward her. "I had this, like, insane dream about him last week. He was feeding me Chips Ahoy cookies and then he started sucking on my toes and -" she trails off, transfixed by the linguine tangled around her fork. Pam laughs quietly and blushes, but it's lost under Meredith's cackle.
"I used to dream about Henry Winkler all the time," Phyllis sighs.
"No, no, no," Meredith nudges Phyllis's arm. "David Cassidy." They both appear to be momentarily transported to another, simpler time. "Pam?"
"I don't really have dreams like that."
Kelly's fork lands in her lunch with a damp thud. "Girl," she accuses, "we are getting you a vibrator and a copy of Interview with a Vampire and we are going to fix. that." her voice is at a volume that will too easily reach out of the room.
"No, I mean," Pam interrupts, desperate to quiet her, "I do have dreams like that. Sometimes. I had one last night," too late, she stops short.
"Ooo," Kelly claps. "Tell us!"
Pam shakes her head, trying to appear casual. "I don't think so. No."
Phyllis smiles reassuringly. "We're not going to tell anyone. Little fantasies are totally fine."
Pam cringes. "Seriously guys, no. It's personal."
"What? Is it someone you know?" Meredith asks, blotting her upper lip with a napkin.
Pam doesn't answer quickly enough. "Now you have to tell us," Kelly says firmly. "Was it one of Roy's friends? Darryl's pretty sexy," Kelly suggests.
"Not Pam's type," Phyllis theorizes. "An old boyfriend?"
"She doesn't have any old boyfriends. She's just got Roy," Meredith observes.
"I'm right here, guys. And we're not talking about this anymore." She glances nervously out into the office, checking to see that Jim's desk is still empty.
Kelly follows her eyes and her jaw drops. "Jim," she breathes. "You had a sex dream about Jim!" She beams at Pam in a congratulatory fashion.
"Boring," Meredith rolls her eyes. "Who hasn't?"
"Oh my God, Pam. Tell us, tell us. Was it good? What happened?" Kelly wiggles in her seat, reaching for Pam.
Pam gathers what's left of her lunch, her embarrassment escalating into anger. "I'm not going to talk about this. Really."
She takes the stairs down to the parking lot and finds a spot on the wall, near the entrance, to finish her sandwich in peace. As she is stripping her apple clean, Jim pulls into the lot. He smiles when he sees her, crossing the burning asphalt with a styrofoam package in his hands.
"Kind of a weird day for a picnic," he sits.
"Kind of a weird day to stay inside," she avoids his eyes.
"Thanks for the warning," he sets the package next to her. "I brought you a cookie."
"Thank you. Want half?"
"Nope. Stuffed. Enjoy."
"How's your brother?"
"Oh, he's fine. I think I need to get Dwight to inspect me for bruises, though," he squints in the sun and laughs at his own joke.
He does end up taking half of the cookie before they head back upstairs. He holds the door for her, and she hesitates when she sees Kelly lingering behind her desk, pretending like she knows how to use the fax machine.
Kelly has enough good sense, just barely enough, to wait until Jim is seated at his desk and checking his voicemail. "Pam please don't worry, I won't tell a soul, okay?"
"Okay, Kelly," she says quickly, brightly, hoping that will be enough to make her leave.
"It's no big deal, really. I mean," she glances Jim's way, "he's hot, right? It doesn't mean anything." Pam feels a little ill as Kelly narrows her eyes. "Do you think it means anything?"
"No!" Pam says, way too loudly, and Jim jerks his head up, looks over. She grabs Kelly by the shoulders and turns her. Pam cannot do this if she has to look at him. "No. It doesn't mean a thing. It was just a stupid dream," she hisses. "Can we please not talk about it anymore?"
Kelly looks over Pam's shoulder at Jim, whose eyes Pam can feel on her back. "Oookay." Kelly slips away and Pam successfully wills her past Jim without comment or incident.
Jim swivels back to look at Pam, his face a picture of confusion and interest. She shakes her head, hoping to suggest that the explanation is totally uninteresting.
She drops into her chair as an IM window appears on her screen. "What the hell was that?" It reads.
"You don't want to know," she replies, trying to look busy enough to discourage him from responding.
"Is that why you were hiding in the parking lot, even though it's 100 degrees out?"
"Pretty much."
"I go out to lunch ONCE and I miss all the fun..."
"Not fun." Pam sees Phyllis glance between her and Jim. Jim is too busy watching her to notice it. "Listen, sorry, but I have about twenty voicemails here from lunch. Later, okay?"
Jim frowns slightly as he types his response. "Okay. I'm going to hold you to that."
"Understood."
She closes the window and picks up the phone, holding it to her ear without selecting an extension. She knows it's just a matter of time.
~~~~~
At five o'clock, she takes her plastic cup of melted ice and her lunch bag to the break room. When she enters, Kelly quickly rises from the table where she was sitting and hurries out the door, turning "Have a good weekend, Pam," into one word, leaving a little cloud of freesia body spray in her wake. Jim is leaning against the vending machine.
Pam freezes and demands, "What did she tell you?"
"What?"
"She told you, didn't she?" Pam accuses, wavering between stepping closer to him and running out the door. She settles on a sort of compromise, folding her arms across her chest.
Jim leans forward, holds up People magazine. "How hot Usher is? Yeah, she mentioned that. And something about chocolate chip cookies. I think I'm glad I didn't catch all of it."
"Oh," she says weakly. "Yeah, she tells everyone that."
"Seriously, Pam, what is wrong with you today?" Jim asks, taking a seat at the table.
"It was a weird day," she replies, leaning against the wall next to the door.
"I'm gathering that." He reflects for a moment. "Will you just tell me what's going on?" They are rarely so direct with one another. She has known him for over three years and he still feels new to her sometimes.
Pam covers her face and draws a breath, "Okay." She joins him at the table. "This is so embarrassing. You are not allowed to make fun of me." He holds up his hands, suggesting an innocence she knows he doesn't possess. "Promise."
"I promise."
She lays her palms on the table in front of her, shoulder-width apart, and slowly says, "I was talking to Kelly, Meredith, and Phyllis. While you were out. At lunch." She pauses, nods once. "We were talking about, um, men, and the subject of," she tucks her chin, "dreams came up."
"Oh," she isn't looking directly at him - she can't look directly at him - but she can see his dawning comprehension. His lips get thinner, the corners of his mouth pull up. "Really?"
"Yeah."
He leans back and looks toward the door. "Is Kelly still here? Because I think I need -"
"No," she grabs for his arm, but misses.
"Pam Beesly," he declares, clearly pleased with this turn of events. "Why on earth would you tell them?"
"She guessed!" Pam cries, covering her face with her hands again, leaning into her elbows. "They were talking about Henry Winkler and David Cassidy and Usher and I said that I don't have dreams like that often but I did last night and she guessed!"
Jim leans over and snatches the magazine off the table. "So let's see, who could it be?" He rocks his chair back onto its back two feet. "What do you look for in in an imaginary tryst?"
Pam hides her face in a nest made of arms and curly hair on the tabletop. "You promised," she reminds him.
He ignores her, flipping through the glossy pages. "Ashton Kutcher? Seems way too dumb for you, but... hm. Johnny Depp? Maybe?" he deliberates.
"I hate you," she sighs, lifting her head, holding it with both hands.
"Am I right? Was it," he shows her a picture of Johnny Depp on a nondescript urban sidewalk, oblivious to the camera.
"No. No," she stands. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."
They're the last two in the office. She gathers up her things, laying the completed fan on her keyboard, pressing her shirt into her lower back to soak up the sweat that's pooled there. Jim emerges from the break room a minute later. Stopping between her desk and his, he says, "I'm sorry," but he's still smiling, obviously looking for another in.
She shakes her head. "It's okay. Really. It's just hot and," she sighs. "it was weird. That's all."
Jim gives her a small smile. "Abraham Lincoln's head on a hot girl's body weird?"
She laughs once, weakly. "No. Not like that. Nice reference, though."
They ride the elevator in silence, Pam trying not to notice that she can smell his skin. They pause in the parking lot and he smiles at her. "Night, Beesly," the tease is still in his voice.
"It was you," she blurts.
He adjusts the strap of his bag, the smile still half-on his face. "Excuse me?"
She closes her eyes. "The dream. It was you." He says nothing. "I'm sorry."
"No it's," he's looking at his feet, faltering. "It's nothing to apologize for."
"I didn't mean to tell them."
"Of course not."
"And now Kelly's going to tell everyone and - I can't even think about it. The cameras are coming back in what? A week?"
"Kelly and I are going to have a little talk on Monday," Jim says gravely. "Phyllis and Meredith, too."
"They won't say anything. Kelly, but not - "
"You're probably right." He nods, reassuring his shoes. "So -" He looks up.
She sighs. "It was really normal. If that - it was really normal." He is staring at her, eyes wide, verdant, clear in the stifling, setting sun. He is holding perfectly still. "We were just," she opens the fingers on her left hand wide against her thigh. "It was," she looks over at her car. "It was sweet."
"Good," he says softly.
"You probably think I'm completely creepy now." She looks back quickly.
He shakes his head. "No. I mean - no. I understand." Even though they're a few feet apart, she can see his Adam's apple bob.
"I wasn't really sure who it was at first, but then I figured out it was you or I realized I knew it was you the whole time -" she's unsure if she should continue, but it feels good, a relief, shameful and honest, fixing the problem of the things that have flitted in and out of her head all day. "I kept thinking that it was wrong and that it should have felt awkward or strange or something, but you were totally fine with it. You acted like it was the most normal thing in the world that we were - together. Like that."
"Huh," his voice cracks. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, his face flushed in the heat.
"So," Pam feels awful, hating the alarmed look in his eye. "Yeah. There. That's all it was."
He nods, looking away. "I don't mind, you know."
"Okay. I'm glad. Now you know. And now you you can help me kill Kelly," she laughs nervously. "God."
"I don't think people should be ashamed," he shakes his head, "actually, I don't care what most people do. I don't think you should be ashamed of that," he says steadily.
"It was just a dream," she affirms.
"It's just a dream," he agrees. "And I'm totally comfortable with cute girls thinking dirty things about me," he smirks.
She rocks up on her toes, relieved that they've abruptly returned to something that feels like normal, even as she's blushing about being called cute. "So you'll be happy to hear that you're a regular feature in Meredith's nightlife?"
He shivers. "Why would you tell me that?" She grins at him. "On that happy note -"
"Yeah. Let's leave you with that image."
"Good night. Have a good weekend."
"Good night. You, too."
They part. The heat inside of her car takes her breath away.
~~~~~
She goes into her cool, dark bedroom to change into a pair of Roy's boxers and a tank top. With her fingertips, Pam soothes the sticky, pink skin where her bra has been digging into her back all day. There's carryout Chinese waiting for her in the hot kitchen, but, for the moment, there's the icy air gliding out of the air conditioner and her overheated skin. Her nipples come to fast, hard points and she turns, lifting her hair from her neck, offering her nape to the breeze with her chin lowered. She imagines Jim's hands covering her breasts, teasing, maybe pinching lightly, and tells herself that she's not supposed to be ashamed.
Pam sits down, lays back on the bed and parts her legs. The cold air slices up her thighs and higher, making her shiver and moan. She closes her eyes, opens up, and lets him in. She has all weekend to erase these few minutes of absence from her face. She is not ashamed, she makes him tell her, firmly, gently, his fingers and tongue explaining the rest. She recalls that ease that her subconscious chose for him that morning and finds it a comfort. It is sweet - that word was correct - and she imagines quiet laughter, whispered jokes along with his hardness between her thighs, his surrendering moan.
She opens her eyes and stares back at the room, absently letting her slick index finger trace a circle on the pad of her thumb. It's not time to move - not yet, not yet. It's just want, she assures herself. It means nothing.
~~~~~
Story Notes:
As this is a little exercise in self-reliance, I did not send it two my regular readers, Callisto and Blanca. However, they should both consider this the the wordy, electronic equivalent of a flying tacklehug. They're the only kind I know how to give.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I spent the week reading Desire: Women Write about Wanting, a collection of essays edited by Lisa Solod Warren, published by the venerable and excellent Seal Press. I think it shows.
~~~~~
~~~~~
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks to all who read and review. I dropped the ball on responding to the reviews on my last post. I won't do that again this time.
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.
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.
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