I'm really not as stupid as they all think. I called Pam on purpose.
I was well aware that my story sounded completely ridiculous. And I figured that no one really cared about me.
Except for Dwight.
I knew that Pam would put me on speakerphone, and I knew that everyone would listen in, muffling their laughter. But I also knew that no one would be willing to come and pick me up. I knew that Dwight would be the only volunteer.
I like to think that I was convincing. The screaming, the feigned panic in my voice, the desperate pleading. I had them all going. They all thought that Dwight was the last person I wanted to take care of me.
He was actually the only person I wanted to take care of me.
I was curled up on the floor when he stumbled into my condo, smelling faintly of vomit. He knelt down beside me, gingerly examining my blistered foot. From so close, I could see the swelling lump on the side of his head. I reached out and turned his head to face me.
In that moment, his grey-blue eyes told me everything.
I could see, even feel, the compassion in his gaze. The undying desire to please me, to comfort me, to protect me. The sacrifices he was willing to make.
Even after losing his bumper, whacking his head, and puking all over his back window, Dwight rushed to my side. He iced my foot, he threw my Foreman grill out the upstairs window, and searched my kitchen for a full forty-five minutes, trying to find bubble wrap.
Only Dwight knows how long he sat there next to me, listening to my groan-punctuated monologues.
Only Dwight knows that we kissed that morning, smiling against each other's mouths in spite of our respective injuries.
But no one knows that I grilled my foot on purpose.
This is my first attempt at The Office, so please let me know what you think.
I'm not sure, but I might add a second chapter, from Dwight's point of view.
So sound off. Pretty please.
~JD