* * *
Last night the moon came, dropping its clothes in the street
“Get up,” I told my heart, “And have a glass of wine.
The moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,
to taste sugar with the parrot of the soul.”
I have fallen and shattered my heart
On your sacred path, the only place I know to fall
So drunk I broke your bowl, my idol
Shield me and take my hand.
A new rule, a new law has been decreed
Break all the glass and fall toward the glassblower.
~ Excerpt from a translation of "A New Rule" by Rumi
* * *
He wakes up with a jackhammer in his head, cotton in his mouth and a swirling vortex of something awful in his stomach. He could blame Andy, but he really should have known better. The soothing voice of NPR coming from the clock radio on his nightstand brings good news, at least. It's Saturday, so he doesn't have to get up if he doesn't want to. Which is excellent, because he really doesn't want to.
He rolls over and turns the radio off with a clumsy smack. The broken red lines of the clock form the numbers 7:27, which means it's actually 7:15. His clock has been set about 12 minutes fast since college, a mental trick meant to help him get to his morning classes on time. It hasn't actually worked in years -- by now he's used to recalculating the time in his head -- but it's one habit he hasn't bothered to give up since the move. He's on time to work more often than not, and Josh doesn't seem to care anyway. Jim has been more productive than ever since the transfer, and he's always willing to work long hours if necessary.
Like last night, for instance.
Last night. The thought makes him groan into his pillow. The last thing he remembers is climbing into the back of Karen's car with his bike. After that it's just a hazy blur of images and the same pathetic dreams he always has, dreams that have nothing to do with the cold reality of his life here in Stamford. He can't conjure up any memories beyond that, but he's wearing only a pair of boxers, so he must have gotten undressed somehow.
That's when he first notices the sound of running water coming from his shower. And the white lace bra hanging almost comically from the bedpost behind him. Propping himself up on one arm, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes with his thumb and index finger. The scattered pieces of the puzzle that was the previous evening begin to form a picture that is distinct and decidedly not family friendly.
Fuck.
Karen? Really?
He reaches over to the floor, finds his T-shirt and pulls it on. With the back of his hand he covers a yawn and briefly considers crawling back into bed. But that would only be delaying the inevitable. So he sits on the edge of the bed and he tries to form the words to let her down easy, to extract himself from this situation with as little discomfort and embarrassment as possible for them both. This isn't a conversation he's used to, the whole "this was fun, but it didn't mean anything so don't get your hopes up" speech. When he sleeps with someone, he usually means it. Or at the very least he remembers it.
Two prolonged squeaks ring out from his bathroom, one right after the other, and the water stops. He wonders how long it takes her to get ready in the morning, if she is one of those high-maintenance women or simply looks naturally pretty without much effort. Soon he'll know these little personal details about her, this woman who, up until last night, was nothing more to him than a co-worker. Sure, she's cool, quick on her feet and he feels a little rush of victory when he makes her laugh. He could maybe fall for Karen in time, he thinks. In another life, one where he'd never met her, they could be good together.
Any minute now she'll emerge, fresh and clean from the shower, running one of his towels through her hair. He thinks he'll know in that moment whether this thing between them -- whatever it is -- could ever possibly turn into something else. Maybe he'll actually feel something besides the gnawing emptiness that took up residence in his chest somewhere between "I can't" and "okay." He decides to wait before composing any elaborate speeches. Meanwhile, his stomach churns.
When the bathroom door finally opens, it's not Karen who steps out.
It's Pam.
Pam -- the real, actual Pam, not a vision or a memory -- pads towards him, her small feet making little indentation marks in the carpet of his bedroom. Her skin is still dewy from the shower and her hair falls in wet tangles over her pale, bare shoulders. She is wrapped only in a towel, pulled tight across her chest with one, delicate hand. When she sees that he's awake, she stops short, then smiles a shy, adorable smile.
It's almost more than he can take. The disjointed images of last night begin to break through the clouds like sunshine on a foggy morning, and he starts to remember. A text message. A phone call. His hands. Her hair. Their lips.
I missed you.
I love you.
I never stopped.
He was right about one thing, though. In this moment he knows exactly how he feels about Karen.
Story Notes:
It's been a while since I posted anything, but I've been working on this forever and just wanted to get it out there. It was originally a one shot, but it got long, so I'll be posting in chapters. Love to my girls. You know who you are.
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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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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.
