Title: Do you think you can tell?
Author: Tornado Ally
Summary: After Beach Day, Pam soaks her feet and thinks about tomorrow.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, as sad as that makes me.
Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
"Jump off a cliff and build your wings on the way down."
-Ray Bradbury
She glanced down at her feet, sandy and red from the beach and the coals. The bright colored nail polish she'd so carefully applied the night before
—what was she thinking, that he'd see her feet and fall madly back in love with her?—
chipped and cracking. And she smiled.
—no, the color had been for her. To remind her that she was worth it, that despite everything, she was ten times the woman (yes, woman) she had been. That she could be -no, was- the kind of girl who wore this sparkly nail polish on her toes—
Her toes wiggled at her, relieved to be soaking in the cool water. Sitting on the edge of her bathtub, she tapped her fingers absently on the porcelain tiles, thinking about the next day.
—what was everyone thinking? What would they say? That she was pathetic?—
She remembered the look on his face. So many senses had flooded her while she was talking that she only now had time to take the memories apart and examine them. He had been smiling at her, a placating look that said "Aww, look at her." It had quickly changed to one that said, quite plainly: "Oh, crap." He had avoided looking to his left, past Angela, and kept his eyes focused on her.
—what was she thinking?—
She decided it didn't matter. If Karen was concerned, it was because she didn't have enough faith in her own relationship, and that was not Pam's problem. She straightened.
—when had she become such a bitch?—
Turning around to grab the towel lying folded on the counter, she caught sight of herself in the full length mirror that hung on the door. She still had her bathing suit on under her clothes, with her jeans rolled up past her knees, with her hair --- the hair she spent an hour coaxing into a ponytail this morning --- now escaping from her elastic. She examined her reflection carefully.
—was there a difference? Could he see a difference?—
She certainly felt different. Taller, maybe? Almost like she was finally taking up space in a world that didn't seem to want to give her an inch. Except for behind the receptionist desk, or maybe in bed.
When she had first found the apartment she now lived in, it seemed cavernous and hollow. She had panicked, wondering how she could possibly fill the space by herself. Sleeping alone for the first time in five years, she had barely moved an inch, lying so close to the edge she had almost fallen off.
Now, though, she slept sprawled across the mattress, using all four pillows, when she collapsed into bed after a long day of answering phones,
—watching Karen play with Jim's hair in the break room—
and art lessons. Canvases filled the living rooms and kitchen, taking up the extra space. She played music loudly while she painted, ate, or read, singing out loud or swaying her hips, enjoying all the music Roy hated. It didn't feel like too much space to fill anymore. Now she was thinking of getting a bigger place, to set up a studio just for her art, so that she didn't keep splattering paint on the carpet. It was almost as though this new her, this independent, outspoken
—well, almost—
tough her she never knew she was, was bursting at the seams.
—what had he meant when he said he hadn't come back yet?—
She wrapped her feet gingerly in the towel and emptied the tub. Slipping her feet into her fluffy yellow duck slippers, she turned on the stereo and padded into her room.
—she had meant what she said. She wanted him to come back. Not only that, she wanted him back. —
She got undressed, folding the bikini carefully. She had bought it for her honeymoon, and it still had yet to be seen by anyone other than her.
—okay, maybe she had worn that for him. But also because it was really cute, and made her feel good—
Hesitating, she paused in front of her closet. Then, opening it, she did something she had just promised herself she would't do. From a bottom drawer, she pulled out the blue hoodie sweatshirt from where she had placed it an hour ago, and put it on.
— "Are you cold?" his voice was too gentle and careful, it made want to cry.
"No, I'm fine." she knew what he was going to do next.
"Here." she tried not to look as his t-shirt rode up and he pulled the sweatshirt over his head.
"Thanks." knowing Karen was watching, she pulled it over her head, breathing the smell of his soap, his sunscreen and…was that cinnamon? —
Lying in bed, she could smell it now, along with a scent she could only assume was Karen's perfume. She hadn't noticed it earlier, but now it overpowered her, filling her nostrils and clogging her throat until it burned
—or were those tears? —
She ripped the sweater off and got up, turning on the light to the hallway. She grabbed a plastic bag from the kitchen, stuffing the sweater into it. Leaving it by the front door, she told herself she'd return it to him the next day, along with the CD he'd leant her last year and the brochure for art schools in Pennsylvania he'd "accidentally" left on her desk several weeks ago.
—more likely, she'd end up retrieving the sweater in the morning, folding it carefully and placing it back in the bottom drawer. She'd wash it later and hope the smell of him stayed engrained in the fabric while Karen's temporary smell washed away. The CD would stay on repeat just as it had since he'd left, and the brochure; now creased and dog-eared from all the times she'd looked through it; would remain next to her bed. Most likely she'd feel sad every time she did one of these things, and probably more than a little pathetic. Most likely she'd do them anyway, just so she could hold on to a piece of him. Just in case he really didn't come back—
She returned to her bed, turning off the music and the light, and curling her legs under her because her feet now felt strangely cold. She wondered how this honestly business had infiltrated her entire life, to the point where she had lost the ability to lie to herself.
—today had been the time for honesty. Tomorrow she'd hold her head high and stand by what she'd said, even if the smile was a lie. She would wish him good luck and tell him she knew he'd get it, even if that was the furthest thing from what she wanted.
And she knew she'd be okay. It had nothing to do with truth or lies, just a feeling that went deeper than her brightly polished toes, that she was more than just … okay. More than the receptionist, the best friend, the unrequited love. That no matter what happened tomorrow, she could now walk away knowing she had done all she could for once. And that it was enough.—
She stretched across the bed, letting her toes brush the edges of the mattress, and she smiled.