I can’t.

Not: I won’t.

It’s been months since that fateful casino night. Pam’s neck is constantly sore from turning to an empty seat next to her during meetings; sore from shooting her head up to look at the front door any time that someone walks in; sore from craning down to look at her phone each time she gets a text message, all in the hopes that it’s coming from one specific person.

Deep down, she knows the answer, but she still asks herself why Jim hasn’t called or texted her since his departure. She could very well ask herself the same thing, why she hasn’t reached out to him since calling off her wedding, but she chooses not to.

Roy was no help after that night, either, with his impressive inability to pay attention to the little things, to fail to notice why Pam had circles under her eyes most days since that grand work party. How can someone’s ten-year partner not notice something as ‘simple’ as a dramatic change in disposition or in a near aversion to his touch?

To be fair, it had been months since Pam had initiated intimacy with Roy, so he probably didn’t think that her shutting him down was anything to be alarmed about.

She can clearly recall when she initiated with Roy just after the booze cruise, though—after she had spent a heady twenty-seven seconds outside with Jim and after she had danced the night away with Roy once he publicly set the wedding date. She wanted to properly make love to Roy that night, to thank him for his public show of commitment to her.

She also wanted to be fucked by Roy that night, in the name of forgetting what Jim looked like sitting next to Katy. In the name of forgetting when Katy innocently asked Pam how she scored an engagement ring. She needed to feel a release that night from a sick mix of her frustration towards Katy, her gratitude towards Roy, and her pining for Jim.

That’s precisely why she’s thankful for being in her own apartment now, with her own sheets and her own decorations and her own schedule. Her own hands. Her own pleasure.

With no one to oafishly bed her on a weekly basis, Pam has all the time in the world to make sure she comes first, in all meanings of the word. It’s been a while since the criteria needed to touch herself has been met, though: she has to one, be in the mood; two, not be in bed next to Roy (a surefire way to kill the mood); and three, feel brazen enough to let her mind wander where it desperately wants to go (even if it’s a place she tries to stop herself from going).

It’s nearing 11 p.m. and it’s windy outside, reminding Pam of the chilly night she spent in the parking lot with Jim so many months ago. Despite the leap in time, she can still clearly feel his hands on the back of her iridescent dress and her fingers in his hair.

Her cotton sheets are no substitute for his warm hands, but she has to make do with what she has.

Earlier tonight, she took a call from her mom in the parking lot after work and it triggered her memory of standing across from Jim and weakly replying “I can’t” – the two words which have haunted her ever since.

She can still see the tear falling down his cheek and the expression of shock and disappointment on his face when she didn’t give him the answer he wanted (the answer that she had to swallow, in the name of not throwing ten years of her life down the drain in the middle of an office parking lot). She can still hear him spurning her lousy excuse of being drunk when they kiss in the office, too. He knew better than to believe that.

She can also imagine what it might’ve been like to have responded in kind, to have confessed “I love you, too” in the middle of that damned parking lot. To have said “let’s get out of here.”

She’s on her back, staring at the shadows that aimlessly dance on the ceiling. Her ceiling fan isn’t moving since it’s cold outside, but the occasional cars driving past her window send bursts of lights across her walls when they rush by.

She closes her eyes and furrows her brows, concentrated on remembering everything from that night with Jim. She wants to remember the warmth of his touch and how strong his hands felt on her back. His hands also momentarily touched hers, holding them in a silent plea to reciprocate his words.

Oh, if only she could now.

This is a weekly, shameful game that she plays on herself. If Jim ever knew that she so frequently thought about him like this, she’s sure that she’d burst into flames in front of him. She’d dig herself a hole and bury herself alive. But, that’s beside the point.

This time, it all starts with remembering their kiss and how he took control of her—how he pulled her against him and claimed the kiss he so rightfully deserved.

Her lips instinctively part in response, quietly inhaling and willing her imagination to place him lying next to her, kissing her as if he had her all to himself. He would gently part her lips with his tongue, aching to finally and fully taste her. Then he would shift to lean on his elbow, so that he’d be steady next to her and could trace the shell of her ear with his tongue when she’d turn to expose her neck to him.

What would she want him to do next? He would move down to her neck and plant a light kiss there before letting his lips hover over her hot skin. His breath would send a chill down her spine.

She would put both of her hands on either side of his face and bring him back to her lips as his dominant hand would trace swirls down her neck and across the length of her exposed collarbone—for, in this fantasy, they’re already unclothed. His mere touch would harden her nipples and send a shot of warmth deep inside her hips.

She arches her back, letting her left hand trail down her chest like Jim’s would, stopping at her breast and lazily circling around the soft skin.

If he were there now, he’d shift his body so that his knees would be on either side of hers, in order to lower his head and circle his tongue around her left nipple while gently grasping the right one between his thumb and index finger, feeling it harden in response to his touch.

Now both of her hands are on her breasts to mimic his touch, but she needs more.

She would need him to continue his trail of kisses along and around her stomach, leaving no patch of skin untouched by lips or hands.

Her own hands do the same and hover over her taut abdomen as she imagines his eyes hungrily looking up at her. He would spread her eager legs, her body like putty in his hands, and he’d start kissing her left knee when he would know exactly where she would rather have his lips.

“Come on, Jim,” she’d whine, knowing he was reveling in seeing her melt under his touch.

Her legs are spread out now as she slowly drags her fingers from her knee to the ache between her legs.

Jim would be shocked by how wet she is for him upon placing his fingers against her. He would all-too-easily be able to draw them from inside her lips up to her clit and back down again. Maybe he would be able to feel her skin pulsing with desire.

He wouldn’t be cruel, though, not in her mind. He wouldn’t skip dragging his kisses down her leg, no, but he would finally settle his face between her legs and lean his head against her thigh, looking up at her to admire the sight of her body splayed before him. His fingers would deliberately explore her glistening folds, teasing her with a featherlight touch while keenly watching her writhe in anticipation. She’d try to cheat by scooting her hips forward in order to get what she desperately needs.

Her own fingers do the same thing his tongue would do, but without the weight of his head between her thighs. She teases herself until she can’t take it anymore and slips her index and middle finger just inside of herself, causing her to sharply breathe in. She bends those fingers until she’s properly knuckle-deep in herself, pausing to bask in the sensation.

“Oh, fuck yes,” she hisses, picturing him sliding his own middle and ring finger in and out of her, slowly enough to make her want to scream, but with a purposeful rhythm. Finally, finally, finally, he would press his lips in an open-mouthed kiss to her clit, causing her to squeeze her thighs around his neck.

“Try not to kill me, Beesly?” he would tease, heaving both of her thighs onto either of his shoulders and using his other arm to rest on top of her hips. He’d anchor her in place with the weight of it so that he could get what he needed, too.

He would dive back in and slowly shake his head from side to side so that his tongue would move back and forth across her throbbing bud of nerves, back and forth until she’d start to shake.

She’s breathing heavily now, her left hand’s fingers steadily sliding in and out of her while the index, middle, and ring fingers of her right hand begin to slide across and around her clit, mimicking what Jim’s experienced tongue would do until she would begin to feel a building of pressure and tightness deep in her pelvis.

Her back arches and she takes her lower lip between her teeth as she imagines twisting her fingers in Jim’s hair as he works his mouth and his fingers in and against her aching sex.

“Oh yes, just like that— Oh, God, Jim—!” she gasps, curling her toes and bringing her legs together around her practiced hands as one continues to pump in and out of her, and the other continues to circle. If only she could feel the heat of his breath against her, now.

The impending wave of pleasure washes over her until it feels like every single cell in her body does a backflip in unison. She cries his name and ends up rolling onto her side, her thighs still squeezed together and her fingers still grasping herself as she comes down, her chest still heaving.

Jim wouldn’t stop until she’d untangle her hands from his now-messy hair, until he’d know for certain that she got to ride out her orgasm against his gifted tongue. He would gently pull his fingers out from her and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before moving his body up to line up against hers, his lips coming to kiss her.

“You taste so fucking good, Pam,” he’d murmur against her.

She tries to catch her breath and wind down from the orgasm she just gave herself, now letting her arms and legs fall limp on either side of her. She knows damn well that she needs to cut it out, this ritual of hers, but she can’t help herself. She likes to think that she can promise herself a fast from thinking those thoughts about Jim when she’s alone in bed; but, even as a non-betting woman, she knows she’d lose that one.

One-hundred and forty-nine miles away in Stamford, Jim has no idea that Pam just cried out his name.