No copyright infringemnent intended. I do not own The Office, FedEx, or the New Jersey Turnpike, nor do I want to. It's just a little bit of admiration, that's all.
I sort of feel like I'm choking. Not like choking on a piece of pineapple, that down-the-wrong-pipe feeling. No, this is a new kind of choking. I feel like my insides are being squeezed up through my throat, my throat constricted with tears, keeping everything down.
I know it's my own fault, getting all worked up. Of course he was only kidding when he said he was going to propose; what did I expect? It's Jim, he's Jim, my Jim, and haven't I always gone along with his jokes? Pranks?
I guess it's just not as funny when I'm on the receiving end.
The entire car ride home I push myself as far against the passenger side door as I can. I notice him throw a few glances my way, but I push my nose against the glass and look at the lights of fast food places and mini marts as we roll along. Jim is driving tonight…it may be my car, but looking at my empty fingers grasping that wheel will send me over the edge, I just know it.
I get out of the car before he can talk, before he can lay a hand on my arm. I don't want him to ask me what is wrong.
If I tell him, then he'll propose.
I don't want him to propose because he feels bad.
I throw him a tense smile as I walk into the apartment, his apartment, still his, not mine, not ours.
The sight of my bare hand on the doorknob just drives that point home a little more.
Kill me now, Halpert, kill me now.
How could he joke about this? How could he make me think that he wanted to marry me like this…oh, fine. Whatever. Too soon anyway, only a year. I know the drill.
Believe me, I know the drill, I know what it's like to wait, and wait, and wait. I know all too well what it's like to be with a man who continually hands out promises made of vapor, ones that vanish faster than you can wrap your trembling hands around them.
I know the dull ache that comes with settling.
I won't do it again. I look at him, by the door, smiling at me, eyes sparkling through the ends of his hair as he retrieves the keys from where he dropped them on the floor.
I love him, I really do.
But I won't do it again.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the sound of his breathing beating in my head like the sound of the drumline from one of those bands in the memorial day parade.
I hate the memorial day parade, come to think of it.
I won't watch it anymore. Not in Scranton.
Not here.
I slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cold wood floor, my breath catching in my throat.
I hear him breathing. I hear my heart beating.
New York. New York. New. York. New. York…
Do they even have Memorial Day parades in New York? Marching bands? Funnel Cake?
I don't think they do. Slowly I slide out of bed, out of the room, out of the house, out of the town.
It isn't until I reach the toll booth in New Jersey that I see it, on the floor, as I dig for an extra quarter in my ashtray. It isn't until then that I see the box, lying on the floor.
I guess he had it in his pocket. And now it's in my hand.
My head snaps up as the toll collector speaks.
I hand her my money and pull through the gate, placing the box on the seat next to me, my head swimming with questions as to why not, when, where, how, if?
I look from it to the skyline ahead of me, a small black blob in the dim light of the polluted dawn; tall spires slicing through the haze. It is just a box, really. It is just a city. Just a ring. Just a future. Just a life.
It is a possibility.
It is not until a week later that I box up the Possibility, gently dropping it into a FedEx box off of 48th.
It is no longer my possibility.