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She hangs up the phone and takes a moment to identify exactly how she feels. (Elated? Confused?) She doesn't (can't) cry, but also can't swallow away the lump at the back of her throat. She imagines it as a tangle of all the simple things she found so difficult to say - "I miss you", "Come Back", "I'm alone".

She half expects (hopes) the phone will ring again as she walks out the door, but it doesn't. There will be no coda to this conversation, no kiss in the darkened office with her lips warm against his while the backs of her legs press against his (Ryan's) desk.

She was never that good in geography in elementary school, filling in the blank maps with names of states and capital cities. If she had a map now, she would place Connecticut on the other side of the country.

The elevator makes her feel lightheaded.

Was that the last time she would talk to him? In all of the times she (doesn't) think about him, "Bye, Pam" are never the last words she hears him say. Pausing in the lobby, she decides (needs) to do what she couldn't in June. July. August. September. She dials the number to the Stamford Branch (for once, her knowledge of all things Dunder Mifflin proving useful) and holds her breath as she follows the prompts to his extension. With each ring, the lump in her throat grows larger, and she wonders what words will break free when he (he will, he has to) eventually answers.

She doesn't know how long she stands there after hanging up on the automated recording (devoid of feeling), but it feels darker. She is still holding (clutching) her phone in her hand when she walks out into the parking lot and realizes her car isn't the only one left.

He's sitting in the driver's seat, staring ahead with the windows open. He doesn't move as she slips her phone into her pocket and approaches.

"Are you ok, Ryan?" As she leans in slightly, she can smell beer and the strawberry air freshener that hangs from the dashboard.

"I'm...too drunk to drive home." He blinks, once.

"Didn't you just go on a sales call?" He nods. "Well, what else did Dwight do?" He raises one arm and places it on the edge of the window, his fingers dangling over the edge.

"Nothing. I went with Dwight. I saw his beet farm and met his cousin Mose. Now, I'm too drunk to drive home and my phone tells me I have seven voice mails." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and watches him run a hand through his hair.

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He gets in her car and fits: he doesn't even need to move the seat back at all. She realizes that he is the first passenger she's had and remembers how she had the brief (fleeting) thought when she bought it that someone tall would need to sit practically in the back seat to be comfortable. Ryan stretches out his legs.

They ride in silence. She finds herself concentrating on certain sounds: the low hum of the engine, the click of the turn signal, the memory of his voice (saying good-bye). Then, Ryan speaks.

"Did Kelly pick out your coat?" The silence slips away.

"What?" He reaches out, slides a finger along her sleeve.

"Your coat. Did Kelly pick it out?" His hand falls back into his lap and she breathes again.

"No, she didn't. Why?" He begins picking invisible lint off of his knee.

"Because it's pink." His fingers are (surprisingly) long. She moves her eyes back to the road, laughs.

"Oh. She does like pink. Actually, she squealed the first day I came to work in this. It was an exciting day." His sigh melts into his next sentence.

"She gave me a pink shirt with a matching tie as a six month anniversary gift. And a Beyonce CD."

"I've never seen you wear a pink anything."

"Yeah."

"What did you get her?"

"Nothing." The car becomes (un)quiet again as she stops at a light. Glancing over at Ryan, she sees the red reflected in his eyes and decides (needs) to be bold.

"So...have you talked to Jim at all? You guys seemed to be...friendly." She pulls into the parking lot of his apartment complex and suddenly wishes the ride wasn't over. She parks.

"Jim? So are you allowed to talk about him now?" His voice, quiet, feels (to her) like it has an edge. She swallows. His next question is louder: "You want to come up? Have a beer?" He hasn't answered her question yet. She thinks of her empty (one kitchen) apartment.

"Sure."

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His apartment is small and neat, and she sits down as he walks into the kitchen. Putting her hands in her pockets, she closes her fingers around her phone and pulls it out. Scrolling through her (pathetic) address book, she comes to the entry she has never called and dials.

The robotic female voice on the other end apologizes and tells her what she already knew (feared) as Ryan walks into the room, beers in hand. He hands her one as he sits down, shoving the one pink sequined throw pillow deep between the cushions.

"Thanks." She feels warm, and sets the bottle down so she can shrug off her coat.

"Yep." He takes a long drink and she stares at her knees.

"So...this is a nice place." She should leave.

"Thanks." Her fingertip is numb from tracing the label on the bottle, back and forth. She thinks again of her empty apartment. She should go. "I haven't talked to him, by the way." She doesn't move.

"Jim?" The name echoes in the small room.

"Yeah. I mean, he's a nice guy, but we weren't friends." She's shrinking.

"Oh." He sets down his beer, looks her in the eye.

"Plus, he's in a different state." His eyes are blue. Unlike in the car, his voice is soft, just above a whisper. "Hours away." He almost sounds sad, wistful. She nods, swallows; the lump is gone. It's silent for a moment, then she kisses him. She kisses him and it tastes like beer and her own disappointment.

In his bedroom, it's still quiet. Her barrette digs into the back of her head, but she doesn't take it out: instead, she turns her head and lets Ryan kiss her neck while his (long) fingers slide down her stomach and up into her, twisting and wet. She cries out, once, and they both ignore what she said as Ryan covers her mouth with his own and slides into her.

She's never been with anyone but Roy, and is surprised when the weight of Ryan on top of her isn't uncomfortable - she doesn't feel smothered. She closes her eyes and presses her hands along his chest and over his shoulders, digging in her nails whenever her barrette digs in hard.

She opens her eyes and holds his gaze, his blue eyes staring at her. He speaks, once: "Pam..." She slides a hand between them and stares at him as he begins to move faster and she comes. This time, she remains silent. He continues moving, then collapses, a long sigh escaping against her shoulder.

They don't speak. She looks over at Ryan. His eyes are half closed and his breathing is starting to slow. She sits up, shakes out her hair. His fingers trail along her back as she rubs the back of her head. Her fingers come out dark with blood.

"I have to go." He pulls his hand away, nods. She walks to the bathroom and washes her hands, then gets dressed. When she comes out, he is sitting up, his head pressed back against the headboard. His eyes look glassy, vacant.

"You know, the temp agency could have sent me anywhere." She pauses in the doorway.

"I know." He leans forward, shaking his head as though to clear it, and covers his face with his hands. "Bye, Ryan."

When she leans down to pick her coat off the floor, she sees a corner of the pink pillow sticking out from between the couch cushions.

She decides to call in sick tomorrow.