Office fic: read the newspaper clipping
read the newspaper clipping
the office, pam (pam/roy, pam/jim, pam/toby), pg, 1017 words, business school spoilers, this is for gracie_in_greek.
Here’s the thing about standing still.
-we imagine after it-
john keats, notes on his copy of paradise lost, 1.706-30
*
“We should take some days off, you know.”
There was a time where Roy tasted like the romance of the mountains, a small cabin in the north, and just the two of us, right? lingering. She hesitates, quietly, her fingers skimming over her sketchbook. She frowns over a coffee stain, but says nothing.
“I’ll think about it,” she says slowly.
*
Here’s the thing about standing still.
She’s been doing this for years. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks the world stops at boy and everything else fades away. It’s obnoxiously poetic, years later, but then again all habits are.
Work, Monday, after the inevitability of her disaster of a show on Friday has her sitting at her desk and away from the kitchen at lunch. She pulls her sketchbook apart, page after page, for lack of something nameable.
Flowers to the right, tape dispenser to the left- series of passionless objects all in a line, shy colors peering back at her.
She sighs.
*
Jim finds her, once, in the middle of the week with his fingers drifting over her wrist to reach for a napkin.
“Hey,” he says, offering a smile.
Her fingers twist in her hair, combing through imaginary knots. It’s only nerves, remember? Her teeth skim her lip and she eventually sighs a hi, leaning back against the counter. She lets her gaze drift to the side as he joins her and she doesn’t linger at choice.
She finds herself waiting for the and how are things? because really, it’s routine with them. New cycle, old words- they could write the book on an eternity of awkwardness.
Her lips part with another sigh. “So I’ll see you then,” she murmurs, pushing herself off the corner.
She doesn’t have to turn to know his position: gaze glued to the floor, his hands in his pockets, and shoes scuffing against the floor. On a particularly bad day, like her, he’ll bite down on his lip. (She used to think old married couple. Kind of funny, huh?)
“Yeah.”
-telling the proper story means backtracking in habits.
*
(is it really about being a little braver? just a little braver? because if it is, then she missed the memo somewhere.)
Her hands brush against a blank piece of paper, the tips of her fingers burned by the coarse texture. Texture. Color. Length. Degree. She still takes thorough notes in class, still thinks about stopping, but if there’s anything she really doesn’t do well, it’s in an ending.
She picks up a pencil, twirling it around her fingers and then sighing as she stands. She cuts across the room, behind Jim, then behind Dwight- she looks away before she passes Karen’s desk- and into the kitchen she goes.
She spills out near Kelly and Ryan, flashing a sympathetic curl of her lips before moving to Toby and sitting down in front him gracelessly.
He looks up at her in surprise. “Pam-”
“- I need someone to talk to.” She blurts out the words, her throat burning. She takes a deep breath. “But I can’t do it here.”
It’s kind of how well, coffee then starts.
*
“You should be glad you missed it,” she breathes, shifting from foot to foot in, “It was terrible.”
It’s the most honest she’s been and it’s kind of great, kind of therapeutic, but after awhile she knows she’s going to forget. Toby smiles genuinely, but it’s not sympathetic, and buys her tea instead of coffee after they laugh about health habits.
“Still, you know,” he tells her. “It would’ve been nice to see.”
She looks away, shy. “Thanks.”
She finds herself watching his hands, the way they press against the table. It’s almost funny for every aspect of Toby- quiet to tired, the obvious case of nerves, but his hands stay flat, stay firm, and she’s really fascinated for whatever reason. She itches for a pencil, scraps of paper, but her hands drop to curl in her lap instead.
He tells her about Sasha’s play and she smiles, genuinely too, as if this was all brand new to her.
“So-”
- she stops him, here, because she really doesn’t want to hear how are you really? but nothing comes out.
“Pam?” His hands brush against the counter.
She sighs but doesn’t say i really don’t want to be back with Roy because like anything else, she’s not ready to say it. Instead, she leans forward with her hands curled around her tea.
“I want to take some time off.”
“Okay.”
She looks down. “Do you have any, you know, suggestions?”
He smiles.
*
“So are we doing dinner tonight, babe?”
Her teeth skims her lip and she sighs as they walk up to the parking lot, behind Stanley and Jim and Karen and she’s thinking about taking the stairs anyway. But she shakes her head.
“I’ve got class,” she says quietly. “Tonight.”
But Roy’s always been persistent, even when they were kids. The difference now is that she can say no and mean no with a nonexistent coyness. She settles into the corner in the elevator, avoiding Karen’s gaze and her fingers curling around the rail.
Roy stays close, his fingers brushing against her hip. “What about vacation?”
She’s almost hesitant, picking at the ends of her scarf. “I don’t think I’m ready,” she tell him finally as they linger behind everyone else. And it means a variation of things: coffee, maybe, falling asleep on Saturday afternoons in bed, no.
He’ll take the stairs back down to the warehouse, like he did in high school except there was a classroom and two cheerleaders that cooed his name like r-oy. She breathes once.
“I think I’m going to do something by myself.”
His brow furrows. “By yourself?”
She becomes certain, quiet, but certain with her fingers slipping out of her jacket. She nods at him.
“By myself.”
*
After lunch, she comes back to her desk.
There’s a blue folder, post-it notes peeking out along the edges. Her fingers brush against one, her lips curling.
Just a suggestion.
finished.
the office, pam (pam/roy, pam/jim, pam/toby), pg, 1017 words, business school spoilers, this is for gracie_in_greek.
Here’s the thing about standing still.
-we imagine after it-
john keats, notes on his copy of paradise lost, 1.706-30
*
“We should take some days off, you know.”
There was a time where Roy tasted like the romance of the mountains, a small cabin in the north, and just the two of us, right? lingering. She hesitates, quietly, her fingers skimming over her sketchbook. She frowns over a coffee stain, but says nothing.
“I’ll think about it,” she says slowly.
*
Here’s the thing about standing still.
She’s been doing this for years. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks the world stops at boy and everything else fades away. It’s obnoxiously poetic, years later, but then again all habits are.
Work, Monday, after the inevitability of her disaster of a show on Friday has her sitting at her desk and away from the kitchen at lunch. She pulls her sketchbook apart, page after page, for lack of something nameable.
Flowers to the right, tape dispenser to the left- series of passionless objects all in a line, shy colors peering back at her.
She sighs.
*
Jim finds her, once, in the middle of the week with his fingers drifting over her wrist to reach for a napkin.
“Hey,” he says, offering a smile.
Her fingers twist in her hair, combing through imaginary knots. It’s only nerves, remember? Her teeth skim her lip and she eventually sighs a hi, leaning back against the counter. She lets her gaze drift to the side as he joins her and she doesn’t linger at choice.
She finds herself waiting for the and how are things? because really, it’s routine with them. New cycle, old words- they could write the book on an eternity of awkwardness.
Her lips part with another sigh. “So I’ll see you then,” she murmurs, pushing herself off the corner.
She doesn’t have to turn to know his position: gaze glued to the floor, his hands in his pockets, and shoes scuffing against the floor. On a particularly bad day, like her, he’ll bite down on his lip. (She used to think old married couple. Kind of funny, huh?)
“Yeah.”
-telling the proper story means backtracking in habits.
*
(is it really about being a little braver? just a little braver? because if it is, then she missed the memo somewhere.)
Her hands brush against a blank piece of paper, the tips of her fingers burned by the coarse texture. Texture. Color. Length. Degree. She still takes thorough notes in class, still thinks about stopping, but if there’s anything she really doesn’t do well, it’s in an ending.
She picks up a pencil, twirling it around her fingers and then sighing as she stands. She cuts across the room, behind Jim, then behind Dwight- she looks away before she passes Karen’s desk- and into the kitchen she goes.
She spills out near Kelly and Ryan, flashing a sympathetic curl of her lips before moving to Toby and sitting down in front him gracelessly.
He looks up at her in surprise. “Pam-”
“- I need someone to talk to.” She blurts out the words, her throat burning. She takes a deep breath. “But I can’t do it here.”
It’s kind of how well, coffee then starts.
*
“You should be glad you missed it,” she breathes, shifting from foot to foot in, “It was terrible.”
It’s the most honest she’s been and it’s kind of great, kind of therapeutic, but after awhile she knows she’s going to forget. Toby smiles genuinely, but it’s not sympathetic, and buys her tea instead of coffee after they laugh about health habits.
“Still, you know,” he tells her. “It would’ve been nice to see.”
She looks away, shy. “Thanks.”
She finds herself watching his hands, the way they press against the table. It’s almost funny for every aspect of Toby- quiet to tired, the obvious case of nerves, but his hands stay flat, stay firm, and she’s really fascinated for whatever reason. She itches for a pencil, scraps of paper, but her hands drop to curl in her lap instead.
He tells her about Sasha’s play and she smiles, genuinely too, as if this was all brand new to her.
“So-”
- she stops him, here, because she really doesn’t want to hear how are you really? but nothing comes out.
“Pam?” His hands brush against the counter.
She sighs but doesn’t say i really don’t want to be back with Roy because like anything else, she’s not ready to say it. Instead, she leans forward with her hands curled around her tea.
“I want to take some time off.”
“Okay.”
She looks down. “Do you have any, you know, suggestions?”
He smiles.
*
“So are we doing dinner tonight, babe?”
Her teeth skims her lip and she sighs as they walk up to the parking lot, behind Stanley and Jim and Karen and she’s thinking about taking the stairs anyway. But she shakes her head.
“I’ve got class,” she says quietly. “Tonight.”
But Roy’s always been persistent, even when they were kids. The difference now is that she can say no and mean no with a nonexistent coyness. She settles into the corner in the elevator, avoiding Karen’s gaze and her fingers curling around the rail.
Roy stays close, his fingers brushing against her hip. “What about vacation?”
She’s almost hesitant, picking at the ends of her scarf. “I don’t think I’m ready,” she tell him finally as they linger behind everyone else. And it means a variation of things: coffee, maybe, falling asleep on Saturday afternoons in bed, no.
He’ll take the stairs back down to the warehouse, like he did in high school except there was a classroom and two cheerleaders that cooed his name like r-oy. She breathes once.
“I think I’m going to do something by myself.”
His brow furrows. “By yourself?”
She becomes certain, quiet, but certain with her fingers slipping out of her jacket. She nods at him.
“By myself.”
*
After lunch, she comes back to her desk.
There’s a blue folder, post-it notes peeking out along the edges. Her fingers brush against one, her lips curling.
Just a suggestion.
finished.