I take a jellybean and watch as she reaches for the box, taking one for herself. She’s been biting her nails again. Her skin is pink and raw and pinpricks of fresh blood follow the curve of the cuticle on her index finger. I want to trace the line of blood; play a sick game of paint by numbers by joining the pinpricks together. But I need to stop. I need to pull back and pretend that the blood isn’t there or at least pretend to myself that I don’t care. She’ll be pissed that her hands are a mess. She’s been getting regular manicures for the past couple of months. Now, she’s just three weeks from the altar and her nails are bitten to the quick. It has to hurt. I follow the trajectory of the red jellybean that she lifts to her mouth. Red ones are her favourite. She once told me that she eats exactly 9 a day. I asked if that was because 9 was her favourite number and she just laughed and shook her head. I wasn’t sure if she meant that 9 wasn’t her favourite number or that this wasn’t the reason why she ate that exact number. I still don’t know why she eats 9 and not 8 or 10. I still don’t know what her favourite number is. There are lots of things I don’t know about her. This is a good thing and I count myself lucky.
She’s looking down at the post-it note that Dwight stuck to her desk moments before my feet betrayed me and carried me over to her. I honestly don’t remember thinking about going over to talk to her. But one minute I was sitting at my desk staring into the endless blue of my computer screen and the next I was standing here - making small talk, making her laugh, and, making myself sicker.
Focus, idiot.
She’s reading the message from Dwight and I watch as she bites the jellybean in half and half again - I long to be that piece of candy. Fuck, to be devoured whole by her instead of watching, helpless, as pieces of me slip away. I’m losing myself. I know that. The problem is that it’s not happening fast enough; it has to be quicker because there’s too much of me left and it still hurts way too much. In the pit of my stomach, I sense the coiled, bruised, threat of hope and wish that all the fight would leave me. I want her to be married already. She has to take the hope away. I want to know that there’s no use crying anymore. No use in wishing anymore.
She’s talking to me now. She’s smiling and I glimpse the unnatural redness of her tongue – maybe that was jellybean number 9. The cherry-red silk of her tongue mixes with the softer red of her lips and it’s automatic: I want to kiss her, taste her. She’ll taste of strawberries and fun. I just know it.
I hear myself answer but I’m not really paying attention. Instead, I’m letting her melt before my eyes. Her image blurs – the redness of her mouth becomes a fuzzy deep stain and her altered smile pushes into itself until her face is incoherent and then she’s mixing, swirling, until she’s just a collection of colours. She is made up of beautiful colours. I want to cry again.
Her phone rings and I’m thankful for it. I don’t turn and walk away from her desk; I back away and trust I’m headed in the right direction. I’m aware that I must look like a crazy person but I can’t look away, not even for a moment.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam,”
She’s all business and I’m all gone.
I’ll tell her tomorrow…or maybe the day after.
She’s smiling at me. Michael rushes from his office, blocking my view, but I know the smile still plays on her lips. The prank was too good, epic even.
She moves in her chair, so I can see her and she grins at me. I want to share in her smile but I can’t. I’m not sure how many pranks I have left in me and when the last one is played, what will be left?
I know you, Pam…I know that the smile you’re wearing will last you the day. But please don’t forget that I gave you that smile. I own it. Don’t share it with him. Don’t do that to me…please.
This time she ignores the phone. Michael orders her to anyhow. I want to walk away, to catch my breath, but she’s calling me over. Now she’s telling me that I’m brilliant.
Her smile reaches her eyes and my chest tightens and I actually reach for my heart, worried that she’ll hear it beating from here. I place my hand on my chest, over my heart, hiding it from her…stifling it so that it won’t betray me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
It speaks anyway but thankfully, tragically, she isn’t listening.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell her…or maybe the day after.
“…I’m lost in loving you deeply, loving you secretly…secretly.”
I know this. God, don’t I know this! Fucking song. Fucking radio station. Fucking break room. Fucking lunch time. Fuck you for singing along without knowing that you’re killing me. I’m sorry…but fuck you.
I watch her lips form the words to the song and I actually pray that I’ll have the strength to stop caring. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed before. I don’t actually believe that it’ll do any good. I don’t know that I’m doing it right. I guess, deep down, I don’t really believe that anyone’s listening, but I guess I figure I’ve nothing to lose.
You have to get married, have kids, move out of Scranton and never come back. You have to do that for me. I know you’re unaware that you owe me that at least…but you do. You do. I’m praying to you, Pam. Go now. Marry him now, this instant, or I’ll tell you what’s in my heart. Do it now before I make a fool of myself. Save me from myself, Pam.
I feel the words bubble and expand in my throat. If I don’t tell her soon, I’ll suffocate. Not telling her is actually killing me. I’m not being overly-dramatic, Pam. You’re killing me. It’s a fact.
She asks me what’s on my mind and I let the words jam against the underside of my tongue. I hide them there. I always knew I would. You’re safe for now. I’m safe for now.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
It’s still my secret.
I don’t know that I’ll ever tell her.
She let me kiss her. She kissed me back even.
I press my lips together, wanting to remember the sensation of her lips on mine, but my arms feel her loss and so it’s mere moments before I come up empty. I shut the front door behind me. I don’t look back. What would be the point?
I struggle to the car with my suitcase and manage, barely, to wedge it next to the many boxes that fill my trunk. I should be setting off. Stamford and a life await me. But, I still feel her pull. I’m a ferrous object, helpless and trapped within her magnetic field.
I stand on the drive and many minutes pass by. I have to want to be better. I have to want to live a different life. That’s the trick of it.
I have to want more than the memory of her.
I find that I do.
There is no tomorrow. There is no day after that. This is our ending.
The Day after Tomorrow – Saybia
Please tell me why do birds
Sing when you're near me?
Sing when you're close to me?
They say that I'm a fool
For loving you deeply
Loving you secretly
But I crash in my mind
Whenever you are near
Getting deaf, dumb and blind
Just drowning in despair
I am lost in your flame
It's burning like the sun
And I call out your name
The moment you are gone
Please tell me why can't I
Breathe when you're near me?
Breathe when you're close to me?
I know you know I'm lost
In loving you deeply
Loving you secretly
Secretly
But I crash in my mind
Whenever you are near
Getting deaf, dumb and blind
Just drowning in despair
I am lost in your flame
It's burning like the sun
And I call out your name
The moment you are gone
Tomorrow
I'll tell it all tomorrow
Or the day after tomorrow
I'm sure I'll tell you then
Well I crash in my mind
Whenever you are near
Getting deaf, dumb and blind
Just drowning in despair
I am lost in your flame
It's burning like the sun
And I call out your name
The moment you are gone
The moment you are gone
