Office drabble: the life of birds
the life of birds
the office, pam-centric, pg, 425 words, spoilers up to business school. this is for quietdecember.
I'm so glad that I'm an island now.
Metric, Empty
1. The first time she sees the city by herself, it’s a smear of colors and a blank skyline. She’s already promised herself a new start, the sketchbook clutched against her chest is a strange weight as it is. But it’s decided that the paints she has aren’t enough, the depth of the light that she’s seeing- she’s seeing- thick with a fascinating curiosity.
“I can do this,” she says quietly. And the words still taste kind of funny.
2. It’s paint by memory, not numbers, but Roy’s hands simply come out of nowhere. There are wide palms, three distinct lines forming separate arches, and a scar between his thumb and index finger from a hockey game their junior year.
- these are the hands that used to make her blush, laugh, and her back dip into an arch as they slide between her legs. She remembers a pickup truck as she smears pencil over a thumb and fuck, pam, but even this kind of nostalgia fades in merit.
(She likes the shredder at work.)
3. It’s still-art and she leaves it at her mom’s with a it’s just a silly teapot drawing claim. She knows that she doesn’t believe her- mothers and that stupid, uncanny ability to know these things- but Pam’s a believer in some secrets, not many.
She goes home, finds the real on the counter, and frowns because the cream-color she left wasn’t right.
4. She stands at her display, long after Michael leaves, picking apart each piece like she understands. Her fingers graze the coffee mug and she sighs, biting her lip. She finally notices she’s in the corner of the room.
5. “I don’t know what to draw,” she says quietly, after she sits in front of Toby. Her foot taps against the carpet with too much nervous energy and her gaze never quite meets his. But this is confession, right?
“I don’t know what to draw and it’s like-”
It’s been too long, too soon, and a variation of decisions are rising to the surface that she should’ve been able to handle. Her hands open and close into and she sighs because there’s a beginning somewhere, always has been. But then Toby’s hand covers hers and there’s a slow smile, soft. It’s not quite what she needs, but it’s nice, really nice to know that it’s there.
“At least you can draw.”
She laughs a little. But there’s still a blank page on her desk, long after lunch, and it slips unnoticed between pages of the date book.
finished.
the office, pam-centric, pg, 425 words, spoilers up to business school. this is for quietdecember.
I'm so glad that I'm an island now.
Metric, Empty
1. The first time she sees the city by herself, it’s a smear of colors and a blank skyline. She’s already promised herself a new start, the sketchbook clutched against her chest is a strange weight as it is. But it’s decided that the paints she has aren’t enough, the depth of the light that she’s seeing- she’s seeing- thick with a fascinating curiosity.
“I can do this,” she says quietly. And the words still taste kind of funny.
2. It’s paint by memory, not numbers, but Roy’s hands simply come out of nowhere. There are wide palms, three distinct lines forming separate arches, and a scar between his thumb and index finger from a hockey game their junior year.
- these are the hands that used to make her blush, laugh, and her back dip into an arch as they slide between her legs. She remembers a pickup truck as she smears pencil over a thumb and fuck, pam, but even this kind of nostalgia fades in merit.
(She likes the shredder at work.)
3. It’s still-art and she leaves it at her mom’s with a it’s just a silly teapot drawing claim. She knows that she doesn’t believe her- mothers and that stupid, uncanny ability to know these things- but Pam’s a believer in some secrets, not many.
She goes home, finds the real on the counter, and frowns because the cream-color she left wasn’t right.
4. She stands at her display, long after Michael leaves, picking apart each piece like she understands. Her fingers graze the coffee mug and she sighs, biting her lip. She finally notices she’s in the corner of the room.
5. “I don’t know what to draw,” she says quietly, after she sits in front of Toby. Her foot taps against the carpet with too much nervous energy and her gaze never quite meets his. But this is confession, right?
“I don’t know what to draw and it’s like-”
It’s been too long, too soon, and a variation of decisions are rising to the surface that she should’ve been able to handle. Her hands open and close into and she sighs because there’s a beginning somewhere, always has been. But then Toby’s hand covers hers and there’s a slow smile, soft. It’s not quite what she needs, but it’s nice, really nice to know that it’s there.
“At least you can draw.”
She laughs a little. But there’s still a blank page on her desk, long after lunch, and it slips unnoticed between pages of the date book.
finished.