He saw her.

He saw wild daisies and first date jitters (even if it was technically their third).

He saw faded pink sheets from the old her and bright red nail polish from the new.

He saw shabby shared apartments that didn't seem so bleak.

He saw Saturday morning cartoons in bed, Sunday pancakes, routine Friday night dinners (even if they had just fought).

He saw yellow roses, gold rings, and shining thresholds.

First sonograms, first steps, first days of school.

He saw gold rimmed glasses, silver hair, and not really minding he was getting old because he liked the company.

He saw a past firmly guarded by a one-way street sign and a future that was open, inviting, like slice of pinky watermelon or bare legs under a white dress shirt.

When David Wallace asked Jim where he saw himself in ten years, all he could see was Pam.