Jim stepped around the moving boxes scattered about his bedroom. He stubbed his toe against an unsuspecting storage box and lunged forward, bracing himself on the edge of his dresser. The lid of the box tipped off in a grand scene and Jim kicked it in response. He was sick of his jumbled mess of clutter taking up his entire living space. Especially when said jumbled mess of clutter thought that it was the victim.

It was amazing how much one could accumulate over a two year period, but Jim had set new records and wasn’t sure exactly when he had the opportunity to reach such a feat. Between the embarrassing care packages from his mother, the inane giveaways his office chose to partake in, and a certain woman who liked to drag things in with her and leave them for eternity. His belongings had nearly doubled since the initial move in.

He had packed away all of his clothing without thinking of a post shower pair, and only now as he tripped across the dark room festooned only in his boxer shorts and a damp towel over his shoulder, he realized his mistake. He reached across his nightstand blindly for the lamp that he had packed earlier that afternoon when it was daytime hours and it seemed useless to have.

Grimacing at his negligence, Jim hoisted the smaller of his two suitcases off the bed and stumbled back towards his living room. The light in the kitchen was still humming its florescent tune by the doorway, its glow illuminating the rather large living space. Jim breathed a sigh of relief, dropping his bag in the middle of the empty room before riffling through it for a tee shirt.

His laptop was sitting on the countertop and with his TV packed away safely, presented as only choice of entertainment for the evening. He was already half way through a movie he couldn’t remember the title to, but knew it was culturally important for him to view. For this reason he had concluded that watching a movie should never be a chore. He much preferred the bellowing of Will Ferrell or Harrison Ford to Clark Gable any day, despite the rash criticisms of his more elite and rather pretentious film enthusiast friends. Seeing that there were still 34 grueling minutes of the movie left, Jim quickly opted to waste his night away with pinball and spider solitaire.

He checked the time on the toolbar. Only thirty six hours to go. The past week he had been in between jobs, and it had proven to be terribly boring. There were reruns of Saved by the Bell to fill his morning hours, a couple hours of trashy daytime to fill his afternoon, and a mixture of past their time reality shows and guilty pleasure teen dramas to fill his evening. He was living the high live for sure.

There was one last draw in his moving ritual, which was to clean out the last bit of scraps from the fridge. On the kitchen table beside a half eaten cake his neighbors had rewarded him with, sat a forgotten package that he had picked up earlier that week from the post office. He hadn’t recognized the return address, and in the rush of packing he had neglected to open it.

It wasn’t particularly big or exciting for it to be interesting, and Jim wasn’t big enough or exciting enough for it be dangerous either. Using his keys, he broke open the tape, immediately accosted with those pesky packing beans. He sifted through the package allowing the foam puffs to spill over the edges before he uncovered the prize, a small smile spreading across his lips as he lifted a small green tea kettle from the box. It was heavier than he remembered, and as he peeked beneath the lid, he couldn’t help but remember…

Jim swept his hand through his hair and allowed his chair to recline back, rocking in it slowly. He blew out a long stream of air that could be turned into a whistle is he rounded his lips a little further and stared darkly at the figure across from him. The sound of tapping fingers had grown to irritate him. Although that was a bit of a broad accusation, seeing as the only tapping fingers he in fact hated, were the fingers of one Mister Dwight K. Schrute. The humming to random Christmas tunes didn’t help either; especially when it was March.

Jim looked back to his list of clients, crossing off Sherry from Smith Barney, another Dunder-Mifflin free business that had no intention of being Dunder-Mifflin full any time soon.

Dwight began to add instrumental sound effects to his all inspiring rendition of Silent Night. Jim picked up his handset and began to dial the next number on his list. Dwight entered into a tear jerking guitar solo. Jim died a little on the inside.

Jim dropped his handset back onto the receiver helplessly. “Hey Dwight,” he said clearing his throat.

Dwight was just reaching the climax of his masterpiece rendition, his head rocking to the beat and his fingers tapping an intense rhythm against his desk.

“Hey Jimmy Page,” Jim deadpanned. “Knock it off!”

Dwight looked at him suspiciously, his song momentarily coming to a halt. “I don’t know who that is,” he said simply; “and I don’t care to find out.”

The wonders of Dwight never ceased to amaze Jim. They never failed to annoy him either. Their desks were adjoined by the “Seam of Death,” as Jim had so lovingly appointed it, and had been since Ed Truck had hired him as a fulltime salesman one year prior. He had grown bored of college, and began working at a temp agency to pay his rent. After a myriad of insanely unique positions, he grew comfortable in the laidback, slow moving world of Dunder-Mifflin paper products. His job consisted mainly of running updates on computers and cleaning out old file cabinets and occasionally running an errand or two for Ed. His charm however, was his only weakness, and before he knew it he was trapped in a job he could care less about. He had a steady paycheck and health insurance. He was set for life.

Of course this was the same week that Dwight Schrute came in for an interview with his own quirkiness and work ethic. He had seemed harmless with his Charlie Chaplin-esque hair and glasses frames that Jim hadn’t seen much since the late 80’s, but he quickly grew to learn when he was bombarded with the heavy scent of beets and dirt as Dwight passed by, was that Dwight was anything but harmless.

It was the little things at first that drove Jim to the breaking point. The first reason on his list were the strange phone conversations he carried on with someone Jim assumed to be some sort of Anime fan club leader, a possible relative, or quite likely a fellow gang member, for all he knew it could have been all three, it was too hard to tell and Jim cared too little to find out. Dwight’s musical interpretation to songs that rarely proceeded beyond the Elvis years and were hardly accurate was another thing that irritated Jim to no end. And finally on Jim’s list that had exceeded 452 points on “Reasons to Hate Dwight Schrute” was his heavy fingered typing and incessant need to hit the backspace key a separate time for every character that he erased.

It was for this simple reason that Jim took it upon himself to make Dwight suffer in various forms of office pranks. It started out small with the occasional Auto Correct that set the name “Dwight Schrute” to “Diapers Shoot,” or moving his desk to odd corners of the office. Sometimes his co-workers would play along with monetary coercion to the point that even the security guard was referring to Dwight as “Dwayne Wayne Bringer of Pain.”

Jim rested his chin in his hand and watched Dwight for a long moment as he drummed the last rifts to Silent Night that would not bring a single choir boy’s mother to tears. Not even Dwight’s. His eyes scanned the room for possible material for the day, and caught sight of several stickers in the shape of a blood drop that read “I gave blood today” on the shoulders of numerous employees. A smile slowly tugged at Jim’s lips. Bingo.

He leaned against his desk and said, “Hey Dwight.”

Dwight looked at Jim coldly then turned his attention back to his computer, typing something vigorously before erasing the entire paragraph one letter at a time.

“Dwight,” Jim continued despite his disinterest. “The blood bank is downstairs today; you want to go donate blood with me?”

He glanced at him incredulously before returning to work. “The Schrute’s don’t give blood,” he said plainly focused on his monitor. “We believe in survival of the fittest and don’t waist our superiority on the weak.”

Jim pursed his lips and began to nod slowly. “Wait a second, what if you ever were in a desperate situation where you needed blood. Wouldn’t you feel bad for taking some?”

“I wouldn’t need to,” Dwight said simply. “I have a perfect immune system.”

“What if you were in a freak accident?” He asked, more intrigued now than he intended to be.

“I’d force my heart to produce blood at a quicker pace.”

Jim narrowed his eyes, “How?”

“Mind control,” Dwight said with his eyes still firmly planted on his computer screen.

“You can’t control your heart through mind control,” he said plainly.

“Yes I can,” he said defensively.

He was genuinely interested, “Prove it.”

Dwight looked at him shocked. Nobody had ever questioned his abilities. Sometimes he neglected to even ask himself about his gifts. He simply accepted them. “I’m not going to waste my powers on you.”

Jim laughed, “Right.”

Quickly during the duration of their “friendship” Jim had learned that Dwight was very much talk and very little action. He told story after story, but rarely did he ever show any proof to their existence, and Jim rather enjoyed that about him because it amused him to no end.

Jim made his way down to the blood drive mid afternoon during his lunch break. Of course it was nice to help out his community, but he had other plans on his mind as he filled out the form and waited tiredly in the lobby.

“Jim Halpert?” The volunteer called out. She had blue eyes; a deep rich shade of blue that he quickly pinned as colored contacts. Her hair was light brown with honey streaks that was tied back in French braided pigtails. It made him smile, reminiscent of the cheerleaders in high school on game day with their pleated skirts and matching knee socks.

“Right here,” Jim waved and hoisted himself from his seat. “And you must be the heroic volunteer that I’m entrusting my fragile life with,” he said extending his hand with a grin.

She was easily impressed, and met his hand with a flirtatious smile. “Anna,” she said simply. She led him around the curtain and he took a seat on the cot. “So you’ve donated before?” She asked shyly. Jim had her pegged at 18 or 19 years old who had been too busy doing volunteer work to get into pre-med at UPenn than to go out with girlfriends to meet “boys.” Obviously though, this plan couldn’t have worked out very well, because unless she was on Spring Break, no way would she be volunteering this far up north.

“You know, a couple times here and there,” he said with a casual shrug. “I’m a firm believer in getting what you give.” Jim bit back his laughter at quoting a New Radical song. Anna however, only seemed to be impressed by his “depth.” Jim sighed before pressing his lips together, “Listen, could you do me a favor?” He asked.

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “What kind of favor?”

“A pair of medical gloves.”

She laughed, “Do you want a whole box? We’ve got like a million of them lying around.”

“No, no, I just need the two. We’re not getting selfish here.”

Anna handed him a pair of gloves before slipping a pair on herself. She obviously hadn’t been volunteering at the blood blank very long, Jim learned as she set her eyes on a barely visible vein that she found suitable to use. Jim flinched before the needle even reached his arm, but as she began to dig around for the tiny little vein promising “almost got it,” he was not wrong to react ahead. He smiled tightly and nodded as he watched her scrunch her face in concentration, comfortable in the knowledge that he would finally get that badass heroin bruise he always wanted.

“There.” Finally she found success and he breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ll be a little dizzy after this so we have some juice and snacks in the lobby for you to replenish yourself.”

He chuckled, “I think I can handle it.”

“That’s what they all say,” she teased as she wrapped his wound. “You get to choose the color.” She held up an assortment of brightly colored medical tape. “I’m thinking pink.”

“Think pink, it is,” he said with a wink.

“Alright then, keep this on for six hour, or else terrible things will happen,” she patted down the end of the tape and glanced at him. “Terrible things.”

It was just past two when Jim took a seat at the snack table and it was obvious that most the volunteers had overlooked booking a baby sitter, and instead carted their children into the building to sit them at the “big kids table.” Jim suddenly felt about three feet too tall as he sipped on a Dixie cup of orange juice and stared at an assortment of eight year olds play with the medical tape by making fake casts and signing each other’s with little pictures.

Jim loosened his tie and threw the rest of his drink back like a shot, even flinching at the citrus rush afterwards. One of the little girls reached for his hand and wrapped it in florescent green tape, drawing a little flower on the tip. He looked at it for a moment in a sort of daze, turning his mouth up with an airy smile before waving his finger towards her.

Life in slow motion. Was it possible to have a midlife crisis at twenty-two? At least now he knew he could clog his arteries to his heart’s content with a lifespan of forty-four. The point was he couldn’t say that he had ever been happy, excluding ignorant happiness any young child feels of course. His life was the epitome of dull with a nine-to-five job that he hated, a pool of friends that included his roommate, his roommate’s girl, a neighbor across the street, and Dwight, and a favorite soda that was Red Fusion, which had just been discontinued. He also considered Dwight a friend, which was another reason to feel morbidly depressed. He’d also never been in love. He’d flirt, he’d date, he’d forget to call the morning after.

Another donor stepped out from behind the curtain and he spied Anna with her clipboard to get the next patient. She paused to glance over at him, offering another shy smile that he mirrored with a tight lip grin and a small wave.

“She likes you,” the little girl informed him.

Jim picked up a Fig Newton and chewed on it with glaring disinterest. “Yep,” he nodded.

Glancing at his watch, he realized that he had almost missed the window of Dwight’s lunch break and hurried back upstairs to implement his plan. His first stop was the kitchen, where he searched through the cabinets for the food coloring Angela had purchased for one of the planning committee events. He would have used ketchup, but the scent would be a dead give away. Luckily, the food coloring was more of the gel consistent type, and as he slipped on the latex gloves and squirted a streak of red across his palm, he was content with his choice. Next, after checking over his shoulder for Dwight, eating his usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the break room, he headed towards his nemesis’ desk, slipping the “bloody gloves” into the top drawer.

Jim slid casually into his seat and glanced back over at the break room where Dwight was still slowly eating his sandwich, staring at it intently with each bite. Perhaps this prank would take a little longer to get off the ground than he had originally expected. Tapping on his mouse a few time, he looked up towards reception where Sophie sat typing out Michael’s messages. She swiped her fingers through her silver hair and caught Jim’s eye, offering him a frustrated face before going back to work. It was the patented “Dunder-Mifflin Glare” as the office employees had come to coin it. It was Thursday; Jim confirmed checking the calendar on his desk, meaning that Sophie would be free at five o’clock this afternoon. Because unlike most of the employees here, she had escaped.

He returned his attention back to his work, but Dwight hadn’t budged, so the fascinating world of paper selling was all he had to turn to. However the sudden excitement of Sophie’s voice as she welcomed a guest into the office grasped his attention instead.

Her hair was a long frizzy mess that was secured back in a clip. She wore a dully colored sweater that was covered by a beige cardigan with the top couple of buttons fastened. Her skirt was floral and brushed against her knees. The bright pink colors however, completely clashed with the grayish pink of her sweater, and Jim chastised him for chastising her for her fashion choices. She wore white sneakers with her socks folded over and it made him smile. Her face was dull and completely washed out by the florescent lighting of the room. She was the epitome of plain, there was absolutely nothing special about her, and yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

Drumming his hands against his desk, Jim pursed his lips before pushing his chair back and casually walking towards reception. Sophie was instructing the new woman on how to run the phone and he quickly deducted that she would be her replacement. He snatched the slips of paper from his mail folder and flipped through them at the desk. Glancing beneath his brows he caught sight of her as she smiled and held the phone to her ear, pressing a few buttons.

“Hi,” Jim said extending his hand.

She looked up at Sophie, “Jim Halpert,” she explained. “He works in sales.”

“Pam,” she said bringing up her hand to meet his.

“New receptionist?” He asked leaning over the desk.

“Looks like it,” she said still grinning.

“I’m giving her the crash course so she’ll be prepared for the tough word of kicking ass and taking names,” Sophie explained.

Jim furrowed his brows, “Had I known that was the job description, you would be fighting me for that desk.”

“It’s all in perspective,” Sophie corrected. “Next step: fax machine.”

“Compared to memorizing the tonnage price on oak tag, consider yourself fascinated,” Jim said with a wink.

“I’ll try to appreciate the honor,” Pam said.

Jim glanced over his shoulder to catch Dwight returning to his desk. “Well I’ve got work to do, nice meeting you,” he said darting back to his seat.

Dwight straightened his keyboard and began typing furiously. Sometimes Jim wondered what exactly he was writing down all the time, but this was not such an occasion. Jim grabbed an old sharpie from his desk drawer and tried to write something quickly before throwing it aside. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he asked, “Dwight, could I borrow one of your sharpies?”

He glared at him, “No.”

Jim frowned. “Please? Mine just died,” he said suppressing a wave of laughter.

Dwight sighed heavily and opened his top drawer to fish a marker out. When he instead found incriminating gloves in its place, he shrieked out of fright. “What is this Jim?” He yelled, briefly catching attention from the rest of the office.

Jim glanced over and grimaced before hushing Dwight. “What did you do?” He asked with wide eyes.

Dwight shook his head frantically, still pointing at the bloody gloves in his drawer. “I didn’t do anything; I don’t even know how these got here!”

“You do realize that that’s what all the other murderers say, right?” Jim said knowingly.

“I think I’d remember if I killed somebody,” Dwight said dumbly.

“Not if you had a rage blackout,” he countered.

“Rage blackout? I don’t have rage blackouts.”

“How would you remember?” Jim said leaning closer, his voice low, “You’d be blacked out.” He sat back in his chair. “Did you know the number one symptom of rage blackouts is a perfect immune system?”

“No it’s not,” he said rolling his eyes before saying, “continue.”

“It’s about brain chemistry,” Jim explained. “The brain is so desperate to find something wrong with the body that it short circuits and has this…” he held his hand to his head and snapped his fingers, “glitch. There’s no telling for how long they’ll last either.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dwight refuted. “Besides, I remember everything that’s happened today. I’ve been sitting at my desk all morning and afternoon.”

Jim narrowed his eyes, “No you haven’t.”

“What are you talking about?” He asked accusingly, “I’ve been sitting right here!”

Jim took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, “No, you weren’t. This morning you got up and walked towards the staircase all suspicious like and came back like twenty minutes later with this weird look on your face.”

Dwight frowned and widened his eyes, “I don’t remember that at all.”

“We’ve got to get rid of the evidence,” Jim said glancing back in his drawer. “The cops will be here any minute with all kinds of warrants.”

“But how?” Dwight asked leaning over his desk.

“Flush them,” Jim suggested. “It will take weeks for them to show up in the sewers.”

“Good idea,” he said carefully snatching the gloves from his drawer before stalking suspiciously across the office.

Jim let out a deep breath before allowing his smile to escape. He checked back over at reception where Sophie was demonstrating how to properly use the shredder and then over to the kitchen where Dwight was inconspicuously stepping out. By the grace of God, Dwight was just slipping back into his seat as Sophie was guiding Pam to Michael’s office, and as Dwight intently watched the mysterious woman cross the room; Jim knew that he had another device to add to his little game.

“Who is that?” He asked suspiciously, his eyes still trained on Michael’s now closed door.

Jim turned his head and then back to Dwight. “I’m don’t know,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “When she was talking to Sophie, it sounded like she was investigating something.” Granted said investigation had more to do with the functions on the voicemail than a murder case. “I think she may be a detective or something. I’m not sure how protocol on a murder investigation goes, but you must have some idea being a deputy and all.”

“I’m only a volunteer,” Dwight admitted reluctantly. “We don’t handle high profile cases like that.”

“Then I’d keep a low profile around her, you don’t want her remembering your face when the suspect list comes out.”

“Good idea,” Dwight said, turning back towards Michael’s office. “I will be neither seen nor heard.”

Michael’s door swung open and Dwight darted underneath his desk. “Dunders and Mifflinites alike,” Michael announced grandly. “May I introduce you to Sophie version two point ‘o’ in the form of Pamela Beesley.” He paused and cocked his head. “Why is Dwight under his desk?” Jim simply shrugged. Michael waved off his confusion and continued his welcome speech. “I will give you a quick tour of the office. I simply ask that you keep your hands and arms inside the carpet at all times,” he turned with a grin. “Genie, Aladdin.”

Pam looked at Jim helplessly who offered a teasing wave.

Dwight waited for the tour bus to roll out of the station before peering his head out from underneath his desk. “She’s not a detective,” he said with an incredulous tone, “she’s just the new receptionist.”

Jim rolled his eyes, “That’s because she’s undercover. How is she going to get any facts if everyone knows who she is?”

“Good point,” Dwight said looking after her. “I’ve got to find a better place to stay,” he said looking around the office.

Jim watched after Dwight as he slipped towards reception, ducking behind the desk before creeping towards the tree in the lobby.

By the time Michael brought Pam to the last stop on their tour, Jim had already managed to close two sales as well as write up a fake newsletter implicating an employee in building 8 of the Scranton Business Park of the murder of a blood drive volunteer in the stairwell.

“And lastly,” Michael began drumming on Jim’s back, “we have bad, bad Leroy Brown, baddest salesman in the whole damn town.”

Jim furrowed his brows, “Wait, let me get this,” he began. “Jim Halpert to football great Jim Brown to song character Leroy Brown?”

“Ding, ding, ding,” he smiled at Pam, “look at this guy go!” Michael looked at Dwight’s desk and glanced under it. “Where’s Dwight?”

Jim threw his hands up curiously.

Michael cleared his throat, looking at Pam and then at Jim with an authoritative tone, “Well I hope he’s aware that he only gets one lunch break a day.” Jim tried not to roll his eyes as Michael bid farewell and disappeared back into his office.

Pam slipped into her chair behind reception for the first time as Dwight jumped out from behind the couch and army crawled back to his desk. Jim followed Dwight with his eyes, pressing his lips together so tightly they were white. He looked up at reception where Pam watched after him with a look of shock and amusement before meeting his gaze with a curious brow. Jim tipped his head in a way to say “busted,” and she only shook her head in amazement. He could get used to this.

Jim strolled over to her desk with his hands in his pocket. “So,” he began. “How’s the first day going?”

“It’s very… cultural,” she landed on.

“Cultural?” Jim repeated scanning across the office.

“Unique?” She offered.

“Better.”

She leaned against her desk conspiratorially, “So is Michael really crazy?”

“More lonely than anything.”

“And Ethan Hunt over there,” she said nodding across the office, “that’s Dwight, right?”

“Sadly, yes,” Jim said leaning his elbows on her desk. “So, for surviving your first day here at Dunder-Mifflin, you deserve a drink.”

She cocked her head and grinned, “Do I?”

“Yeah,” he nodded mirroring her smile. “After work, my treat, but you only get one, after that it’s your own tab you’re running.”

“How very noble of you,” she said wryly.

“Hey now,” he said holding up his hands, “I’m not made of money here. And this is a welcoming gift, not a date.”

Her face fell for a moment before she began to nod, “Well if it’s only a welcoming gift…”

“Completely platonic,” he confirmed.

“Why not.”

“Great, I’ll meet you after work,” he said heading back towards his desk.

“Wait,” she said reaching over reception to catch his arm. “What’s up with Dwight?”

He leaned in closely, “I convinced him that he committed murder in a rage blackout and that you’re investigating it.”

Dwight watched Jim coldly as he sat back at his desk. “You turned me in, didn’t you?”

“No, no,” Jim shook his head. “I was covering for you. I was making sure she was actually working for the cops.”

“Well is she?”

“Worse,” he said sitting back in his chair. “Apparently the guy was some sort of ambassador or something, she’s with the FBI.”

“What was an ambassador doing in the Scranton Business Park?”

“Volunteering for the blood bank,” Jim explained. “Apparently his daughter needed a blood transfusion or something and he was doing what he could to help.”

Dwight looked at Pam who was watching him and taking notes. Jim caught site of this and smirked. He could get used to this indeed.

This was all working out perfectly for Jim, Dwight considered, a bit too perfectly. The facts just weren’t adding up, and the implications on Jim were only growing. There was Dwight’s sudden mental illness, Jim’s attendance at the blood drive the same time of the murder, and his blatant charming of the FBI agent. Perhaps Jim was the true murderer. It was all making sense now, and Dwight now felt compelled to stay in the country to prove his innocence and reveal Jim was the true murderer instead of escaping to New Zealand for his Lord of the Rings trek as he had originally planned.

Jim could feel Dwight’s eyes on him, and as he glanced up at his accusing stare, Jim knew that Dwight not only decided that he couldn’t have committed the murder, but now suspected that Jim had.

Dwight scooted his chair away from his desk carefully, his eyes never leaving his coworker as he inched towards human resources, where Toby generally took complaints, which were generally directed towards Jim, which were generally filed by Dwight. “I have to go make a phone call,” he said tightly.

Sometimes Jim felt bad for the hell he put Toby through. Usually Dwight didn’t go off to complain about him till Friday’s when he had a nice and full laundry list to report, but he couldn’t blame Dwight for jumping the gun this week. Murder was a pretty important crime to contact HR about.

Five o’clock came about eight hours too late, and when Jim finally checked his watch to see that it was five past, he immediately jumped from his desk and headed towards reception.

“You ready?” He asked her.

Pam smiled hauling a pile of papers, “Give me five minutes.”

They went to Kelly’s because it was two blocks from his house and three from her own. He ordered her a daiquiri because she told him she liked fruity drinks and crushing ice in her teeth.

“So what brings you to Scranton?” He asked setting her drink in front of her at the table they secured.

“I’ve actually lived here all my life,” she explained. “Well Old Forge that is.” She took a sip from the pink beverage and grinned. “I just moved in with my fiancé though, he’s been working in the Dunder-Mifflin warehouse for about a year and he suggested I apply for the reception job when he heard about the opening.”

“Wow,” Jim felt like the wind had just been knocked out of him. “That’s a lot of life story right there.” He considered the guys in warehouse and quickly suspected the stocky football stud, Roy to be Pam’s suitor, and although he couldn’t quite see him with anybody as plain and quiet as Pam, he hadn’t enough information to pass any judgment. “So how long have you been together?”

Pam considered this, counting the months, or possibly years on her fingers, “Seven years give or take a month or two.”

“Wow,” he repeated. “Was this an out of the womb courtship or something?”

“High school sweethearts,” she explained. “I was the art geek and he was the football stud,” she laughed, “it was a Freddie Prinze Junior movie waiting to happen.”

“What are you doing out here with me then?” Jim asked. “You should be at home eating TV dinners and watching Wheel of Fortune with the rest of the old married couples out there.”

She laughed again and he fell in love with her. “I’d like to see the day Roy sat down to Pat Sajack while the Eagle’s pre-game was on.” She took another sip letting the straw gurgle in the disappearing puddle. “He works late on Thursdays; it’s their big night of deliveries or something so he usually doesn’t get home till nine.” She leaned in intimately, “I know he’s really playing cards at Daryl’s though because he always smells like beer and cigars.”

“What about you?” She asked resting her head in her hand. “I think I’ve told you my entire life story, which is sad because it only fills a two minute span.”

Jim chuckled, “Mine isn’t much better.”

She narrowed her eyes, “You look like you were a basketball player.”

“You have an eye for it?”

“I was involuntarily dragged to every sporting event our high school had to offer for almost two years, I can spot the type.”

He nodded, “East Stroudsburg North,” he confirmed. “Good old Timber Wolves, number ten.”

She frowned, “I don’t think we ever played you. Not that I’d remember or anything, I hardly paid attention.”

“Me either, would have forgotten it was game day had it not been for the uniforms and cookie boxes.”

“So played basketball but hated sports,” Pam summed up for him. “I feel like I’ve known you forever!”

“Let’s see…” Jim tapped his fingers against the table summing up the proper words. “I rode the wave of mediocrity through high school, so I’m lazy. I was rejected from my top two college choices, so I’m a failure. I dropped out of college after two years, so I’m a quitter. And I settled for a job that doesn’t suit me what-so-ever, so I’m passionless.”

“Sounds like a catch to me,” Pam said dryly. “You sound like a model underachiever.”

“Well I do my best not aspiring nor achieving.”

Jim watched her slurp up the last traces of her daiquiri, “Hey, do you want another one?”

She reached for her purse and began to rifle through it, “Yeah that would be great.”

Jim stopped her shaking his head, “I guess I’ll cover the second one two, but that’s just because tipsy people make me giggle.”

“Well as long as my disgrace is amusing,” she submitted.

He stood at the bar waiting for their order and he couldn’t help but look back over at their table. She sat there shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear to pass the time as she stared off at the television in the corner. She was getting married to the only man she’d ever known, and yet Jim was still standing there waiting for the fall.

Pam traced a faint ring on the table's surface. It was quiet here on Thursdays, she thought as she scanned across the empty bar. There were only a few groups munching on fries while watching sports highlights on the far side of the room and this almost seemed busy compared to other late Thursday afternoons. She liked it like this, calm and intimate.

They had come on a Wednesday once, when the air was thick with chicken wings and hot sauce. The bar had been swallowed in a crowd and the commotion in the room was so hectic that they had wordlessly looked at each other before stepping out slowly. Instead they went to the gas station down the road and got a twelve pack of Miller Lite that they drank on his porch beneath a cool blanket of stars.

He was over at the bar arguing with Mick, the bartender about the travesty of printing Import on a Labatt Blue bottle. It was one thing to celebrate German lagers, but to pretend that beer that filled college dorm rooms across the northern border was so great that it needed to be transported over international borders was ridiculous. Mick had argued that Molson had fallen under the same category, but Jim was quick to rebuttal that at least Molson was good.

Pam was amused as she faintly listened to their conversation. She had pulled a pen out of her purse and begun doodling on her cocktail napkin. A scene of the half-empty martini glass, a drink she felt obligated to try but immediately made her "Never Again" list, a candle that smelt of vanilla, and an empty bottle of Amstel that was leaving water rings everywhere it landed.

Jim slipped into his seat at what had become their table just as she was penning the final details. She looked up at him, an amused smirk crossing her lips. "I thought that beer was taboo."

"Not when it's free," Jim said taking a sip from his Labatt bottle. He noticed her artwork from over her shoulder and said, "What's that?"

"Nothing," she said sliding it across the table towards him. "Just a little drawing. I used to be really into art."

His eyes looked at the cocktail napkin and then at the table. "Wow, that's really good."

She could feel a slight blush warm her cheeks. "It's just napkin art," she said.

"It's better than anything I could ever draw."

"I took some classes at LCC, but ever since the move I haven't had the time to enroll in anything else," she said.

"What kind of art do you usually do?" He asked. Rarely had anybody been so interested in her extracurricular interests.

"Mainly illustrations, a couple watercolors, I was really into landscapes for a while," she listed. "I did the illustrations for a children's book a couple years back, but I think the printing was only local and my mom bought up most of the copies."

Art had once been her passion. Her work was often spotlighted at her high school's art shows and she had sent a portfolio to the PCA&D. However, life had gotten in the way, and when Roy had asked her to marry him, she hadn't the time to pursue it any longer. Her passion had dwindled to a hobby, and her hobby was sacrificed to the Dunder-Mifflin reception desk.

"I'd love to see your work sometime," he said.

"I don't have time for it anymore. And Roy and I both agreed that it's not a lucrative field and we need to focus on funds because of the wedding and paying off the house and the truck…" she trailed off, "it's just not a very realistic dream, to be an artist."

Jim frowned before shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah, but isn't it better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb, than halfway up one that you don't?"

She had obviously thought of this before, and as she slipped out of her seat in search of another drink, he had proof for himself that it was true. Watching her talk to Mick like an old friend, Jim folded up the cocktail napkin and slid it into his back pocket, pretending to not notice it was gone when she came back a moment later.

. . .

Pam threw her jacket onto the rack, ignoring it as she heard it fall to the floor with a flop. Roy was on the couch flipping through the channels, a beer resting on his thigh. "Is that you?" He called out at the sudden commotion.

"Yeah, it's me," she said pressing a hand to her forehead. She had more to drink tonight than usual, and when the room began to filter in and out of focus, she immediately regretted that decision.

"How was your girls' night out?" He asked with a chuckle.

Pam balanced herself against the back of the couch. "It's not girls' night out," she corrected. "It's drinks with Jim."

Ever since Jim Halpert had become the lead character in all of her stories, Roy had teased her about finding a new man, but hardly felt intimidated. And while it was nice to be in a relationship full of trust, Pam couldn't help but hope he'd show some sort of jealousy. Sometimes she wanted any kind of reminder that he cared about her, but often she was left with complete apathy.

"Oh right, Thursdays are for your boyfriend." He watched her warily round the sofa before leaning against the armrest. "When you come home smelling like lime and tequila, I think that automatically means ladies night." Pam rolled her eyes and immediately was thrown off balance, frantically reaching for anything to brace her self. Roy laughed again and caught her arm before she fell. "How much did you drink tonight, babe? I've never seen you so hammered before."

She closed her eyes tightly then opened them again in hopes of removing her beer goggles. "Just two or three," she said shaking her head before bursting out in giggles, "or seven."

"You didn’t drive home did you?" He said suddenly getting worried.

"No," she shook her head, "no, no, no," she repeated. "Jim drove me home."

"Good," he said turning his attention back to the television. "We don't need our insurance going up, it's bad enough on the truck as it is."

Pam chewed on her lip, her eyes focused intently on the floor.

"Carrie called," Roy went on. "She wants us to come over on Saturday. Needs help on cleaning out the gutters because Todd's out of town." He landed on a channel that seemed to interest him and paused. "She said Lizzie missed her Aunt Pamie so she wanted you to come too."

Pam placed a hand on his thigh, her fingers grazing up his leg slowly. "Sounds good," she said. Her eyes were dark as she stared at him through the flicker of the television set. "Roy," she said, scooting closer to him on the couch. "What do you think of me right now?"

Roy laughed a deep throaty chuckle that always made her smile. "I think you're drunk," he said taking another swig from his beer.

She threw her leg over lap and straddled him. "Don't you mean sexy and irresistible?" She asked pressing her forehead to his.

Roy ran a hand up and down her back as she pressed her lips against his throat. "Yeah, yeah," he murmured. "Pam, look, The Rock is on. I haven't seen this movie in forever."

Pam ran her hands down his chest and began to unbutton his work shirt. "Babe not right now," he said pushing her off of him. "You smell like puke."

She frowned as she climbed to her feet. "I'm going to go to bed," she said.

He glanced up at her and then back at the TV. "That' s good idea," he agreed. "And don't forget to brush your teeth!"

She walked against the wall to guide her to the bedroom and told herself it was the alcohol blurring her vision and not hot tears that were rolling down her cheek.

. . .

Pam clicked through her e-mail and rolled her eyes at the tenth reminder of the "Second Annual Dundie Awards." Across the office, Jim was just hanging up his phone and spinning his chair around in relief. He pointed at Dwight's empty desk and then waved her to his with the beckoning of a finger.

"What is it?" She asked folding her arms across her chest as she leaned against his desk.

Jim simply held up a tube of super glue with a grin. "I just can't decide what to glue first," he said.

Pam pressed her lips together. "The mouse to the mouse pad."

"Brilliant," he said popping off the cap.

She watched as he smothered the bottom of Dwight's mouse with glue before pressing it down onto the pad. "So what are the Dundie awards?" She asked while he kept an eye on his watch waiting for it to dry.

"Michael's insane excuse to waste our time and ruin classic songs," Jim said with an eye roll. "Last year's was only four hours long. It would have been longer, but the manager kicked us out."

"Yeah, but are we supposed to get dressed up or something?" She asked.

"Definitely, I've got my tux rented and everything."

She frowned this evening was growing more elaborate as she originally anticipated. There was her blue dress she wore to Roy's sister's wedding, or the slinky black dress she wore to her engagement party…

"I was just kidding," Jim said with a laugh, noting her deep concentration. "Most people just go straight from work."

"Oh," she sighed with relief. "Okay then."

"Hey, do you need a ride?" He asked. He seemed distracted though, checking over his shoulder for Dwight's reentrance.

"No," she shook her head. "I'll just drag Roy along."

"Good luck on that."

Dwight finally slipped out of the kitchen and sat down at his desk. Pam and Jim immediately began a forced casual conversation with laughter on the edge of their voices. Dwight checked his notes before placing a hand on his mouse, his eyes narrowing when the device didn't move. With more force he again pushed against the mouse. "Jim," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"What was that?" Jim asked innocently.

"Why is my mouse not moving?" Dwight demanded.

"It's probably the mouse pad, those things get sticky sometimes."

"A mouse doesn't get stuck to a mouse pad, Jim," he said flatly.

"Well then," Jim shrugged. "You're obviously not strong enough then. Your tae kwan do must not be paying off."

Dwight seemed to take offense and narrowed his eyes in response. "I do not take tae kwan do, I'm a blue belt in…"

"No one cares Dwight," Jim said.

Roy appeared in the lobby and looked perplexed at Pam's empty desk. "Hey," Pam said pushing herself off of Jim's desk and stepping towards him.

"Hey," he said. "You about ready to go?" He asked hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Actually I have a few more things to do before we go."

Roy frowned. "How much longer do you think?"

"Twenty minutes?"

"I'll wait in the truck then."

"Wait," Pam said grasping his hand. "Tonight's that awards thing that I told you about."

"Right," Roy grimaced.

"Come on, it'll be fun," she said pouting her lip.

He shook his head, "I went with Darryl last year and it's anything but."

"We could at least get dinner, it's at Chili's."

"I'm kind of beat though," Roy said rubbing his sore neck. He noted her disappointment and sighed. "You don't actually want to go, do you?"

"I kind of want to see what all the fuss is about," she shrugged.

Roy scratched his temple searching desperately for an escape route. "Is it okay if you went without me?"

The disappointment didn't leave her face, yet she began to nod slowly. "Yeah sure, I'll just get a ride."

"Great," he kissed her forehead. "I'll see you at home then."

"Yeah," she said watching him leave. She turned on her heels and looked at Jim. "About that ride?"

Dwight and Michael had checked out at five o'clock exactly in order to properly prepare for the night's festivities. The simple fact that there had to be an hour and a half of preparations wasn't frightening to most, but the fact that Michael Scott and Dwight Schrute needed an hour and a half for preparations could put the scariest horror movies to shame.

Jim stepped up to reception and tapped on her desk. "Your ready to go?" He asked.

Pam looked up at him with a nod.

"Okay, don't be intimidated or anything," Jim began as they crossed he parking lot. "But I own a Corolla, not lease, own, and it just so happens to be red."

Pam laughed as they made it to his vehicle. "Wow, I thought only the movie stars drove these!"

"No, no," he shook his head sadly, "they only dream of being so lucky."

When he opened her door for her she nearly laughed. Nobody had ever opened her door for her.

"So explain these awards to me," Pam said as they pulled out of the parking lot. She was sitting on her hands nervously and kept her gaze set out her window. The only question on her mind however, was why she was so tense alone in a car with him.

"Let's see," Jim considered. "Last year was the first ever Dundie's Awards. This of course coincided with it being Michael's first year as regional manager."

She laughed. "Weird."

"Past honorable wins include 'Could He Be Any Taller?'" Jim began thoughtfully. "And that's it because there's only been one award ceremony."

"Wow, I thought it was based on past merits or something…"

"You underestimate Michael's incompetence then."

There was a silence then; a silence that Pam was desperate to fill. "We need music," she decided.

He narrowed his eyes, "Chili's is like 10 minutes away, not even."

"And I think those 10 minutes should be filled with the joy of song."

Jim chuckled and cast a quick glance in her direction before looking back to the road. "I think I've got some tapes in the glove compartment."

"Ooo, a tape deck! The rich and famous much envy you so!" She said dryly. Pulling open the glove compartment she picked up the first tape. Her sudden silence peeked his curiosity, and as he looked over at the passenger seat, he saw her face frozen in a mixture of shock and amusements. "ABBA's Greatest Hits?" She asked simply.

"I have no idea how that got there," he said shaking his head.

"ABBA's Greatest Hits?" She repeated.

"It must have come with the car," he reasoned.

"Oh yeah, because all Corollas come standard with power locks and all your favorite 70's hits."

Jim thought about it for a long moment. "You know what it was," he said tapping a finger against the steering wheel. "It was my mother. She borrowed it."

Pam rolled her eyes, "I'm sure it was that," she nodded I agreement. "I'm sure there was something in the air that night, and the stars were bright." She laughed. "Fernando."

Jim shook his head. "You're not going to let this go."

Her tongue peeked between her teeth as she continued to taunt. "Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong. You're enchained by your own sorrow!"

Jim swung the car into the parking lot of Chili's with an amused grin. "That's what I thought."

I’m not crazy I work at Dunder-Mifflin.
I know, right now you don't know what I'm sayin'.
But work a while and maybe then you'll see,
how to win a Dundie

The awards were exactly as Jim had warned.

Jim peeled back the label on his bottle to no avail. His finger nail was to short, the condensation on the bottle made it too slippery, the adhesive on the label was too strong, all these factors seemed to add up against him. Or perhaps he was just too frustrated. She was talking about the wedding after all.

"So we haven't set a date or anything," she explained, "but I'm pretty sure we're going to try to have it sometime in the summer. Just because it's easier for people to work their schedules around the summer."

"Yeah," he said with a nod. His eyes stayed locked on the bottle in his hand and only a small part was still listening. "Definitely."

She frowned. "Do you think it would be weird if I asked you to be my matron of honor?"

Jim was caught off guard for a moment, "Don't you want to ask someone from back home or something?"

Pam cringed, "Honestly? I didn't have many girlfriends in high school and I don't have any sisters to ask and I don't think I'm allowed to ask my mother." She pouted her lips in a way that made his heart skip a beat. "Come on Jim, you've been like my best friend since my first day here."

He frowned thoughtfully. There was something to be said when a bride asked a man to be her matron of honor, but sadly Pam neglected to see this. "Well," Jim said pursing his lips. "If I'm the maid of honor it really limits my options when I sleep with all your bride's maids."

"Oh right," she agreed reluctantly. "Also Roy's ushers would have to share, I mean unless you were willing to take one of them on too."

Jim shrugged, "At this rate we should turn your wedding into an all around lovefest. Please tell me you aren't inviting Dwight."

She scrunched her face in horror. "At this rate I may have to with the circus you're planning."

Pam looked across the bar. "My order's up," she said slipping out of her chair to get her food.

Jim finally loosened a corner from the glass bottle and seemed content with that much progress. Thursday night drinks had grown increasingly awkward as her wedding plans progressed and his attraction towards her began to evolve into something dangerous.

She was back now, dropping a couple baskets and a handful of ketchup packets. Pam picked up a packet and began shaking the contents to one end.

"A hotdog?" Jim questioned.

"I haven't had one in forever," she countered. "Quiet you, I got you fries."

Jim pressed his lips together and pretended to zip them shut. He reached over for one of the condiment packages, narrowing his eyes as he read the label. It certainly wasn't Heinz, not even a nameless brand. No, Pam Beesley had scooped up a handful of Taco Bell reminiscent hot sauce packets.

Pam cringed at the watery consistency of her ketchup, and Jim tried to not die from holding back laughter. She noticed his distress. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Jim said holding up a cautionary hand. "Enjoy your hotdog."

She narrowed her eyes at him before taking a bite. There were about five different expressions to cross Pam's face in the short moments that followed. First of confusion, second slight disgust, third immediate terror of her mouth being on fire, fourth pain, and fifth amusement as Jim picked up a packet with a surprised albeit sarcastic, "This isn't ketchup at all!"

Pam fanned herself before finally speaking. "Wow." She took another bite. "It's not that bad when you expect it."

Jim shook his head, "That seems disgusting."

"Seriously it's good," she said offering him a bite. "Come on," she teased, "you know you want to."

Jim looked at the tainted hotdog, then to Pam, and then back to his fries. "No," he said simply.

Pam opened another packet and poured it into the corner of her basket, snatching a couple of Jim's fries to dip in. "You going to eat everything with hot sauce now?"
"Is that a challenge?" She asked raising a stubborn brow.

His lips were pressed into a tight lip grin. "I think you want it to be."

She fisted the rest of the hot sauce packets and placed them in his hand. "Every day at lunch next week, you bring in a new thing for me to try with hot sauce. And when we get bored with that we can just feed it to Dwight."

"You're on."

The challenge started harmlessly enough. Every morning Jim would slip a packet from his desk drawer and wave it tauntingly towards reception. Her first mystery entrée was a carrot stick, which blended quite well. Next were pretzels, which again received a positive response. On the third day however, Jim decided to be cruel, and a container of Pam's favorite mixed berries yogurt was placed on the block. This resulted in a rather permanent grimace, or at least a good five minute one, and drew to the conclusion that although spicy berries was terrible to the taste pallet, perhaps vanilla yogurt would have been a suitable companion. Thus the challenge ended, leaving Jim disappointed with his high hopes of Chocolate Cake Thursday and Hot Sauce Hot Sauce Friday.

It had however subdued Jim's impossible crush on Pam when he realized how much fun he could have with her on a purely platonic level. She was his best friend. The kind of person who'd play along with his jokes and step up the plate when the joke was on her. She had also come to the point when she could quickly catch onto his schemes. Which is why that Friday afternoon when he was slipping bills into the snack machine and immediately pressing for the change release, she knew he was up to something.

"I'm hoping you're not planning on hitting Dwight with a sock full of quarters," Pam said leaning against the machine. "Because although well deserved, you'll probably have assault charges to deal with."

Jim patted his pocket, which offered the music of jingling change. "I'm working on a project."

"And…" Pam encouraged. "Care to divulge?"

"I’m going to make Dwight hit himself, without ever laying a finger on him."

"You've peeked my curiosity," she said prying for more information.

"Well I was going to try to add weight to Dwight's phone so it just sort of…" Jim's hands danced with his words. "Smacked him in the head."

"Don't you think he'd be used to the weight by the time he brought the handset to his ear though?"

Jim grinned proudly. "I already thought of that," he said. "That's why I'm going to weigh the phone down, then let all the coins out so he goes to pick it up… bam!"

Pam shook her head. "Your talents are seriously wasted."
"The only problem is that quarters don't fit through the gap easily, and I forgot that change from the vending machines only come in quarters."

"Then make change through snacks," she suggested and took a fistful of quarters from his hand. She slipped in a few, "Look, gum is only thirty-five cents." Reaching into the change slot she presented him with a nickel.
"Don't you think it would be cheaper to just run out and made change for a dollar at the gas station or something?"

Pam rolled her eyes. "Vending machine food has a shelf life of like fifteen years. Consider this stocking up for a national disaster or something." She popped in another few quarters, "Ooo, Hoppers!"

With a drawer full of snack foods and a pocket full of nickels, Jim waited intently for Dwight to head off to the bathroom and dropped a few nickels into his handset. Picking up his own receiver he balanced out the weight and quickly placed Dwight's phone back onto its cradle.
Dwight sat back at his desk and immediately went back to making phone calls. Fifteen minutes later, Pam buzzed Dwight about somebody down at security inquiring for his presence. Jim dropped another few nickels into his phone.

By four o'clock, Jim had gone through nearly three dollars in nickels, and about twenty in vending machine snacks, some of which Pam munched on at reception. Dwight was growing suspicious of the sudden effort he had to put in answering his phone, and when Jim heard him grunt to lift it, the time had come to put his prank into action.

Dwight went off to what had to be his tenth bathroom break of the day, and despite the slight concern Jim felt at his coworker's bladder control; he quickly reached for his phone and dumped a waterfall of nickels into his top drawer. Dwight returned soon after and Jim gave Pam the thumbs up.

Reaching for her phone, Pam dialed Dwight's extension. He leaned over his desk and reached for his phone, preparing to lift with much strain and was only caught off guard when the handset flew off the cradle and straight into his face.

"Careful there with the heavy lifting, Buddy." Jim said shaking his head disapprovingly.

Dwight checked at his watch and realizing he was late for his appointment, headed towards HR.

. . .

Pam was busy in the kitchen making dinner, or at least as busy as one can be boiling water for pasta. Outside Roy was tossing a Frisbee to the neighbor's dog. He had started up a pretty quick friendship with Chris and his son Michael but that was to be expected. Roy could strike up a quick friendship with anybody if he wanted to.

He had always had that talent. In high school he had been the town hero, apparently being good at football was all you needed for the talent. The fact that he knew how to have a good time was the next characteristic that led to his glory. He was the life of every party and soon became a living legend amongst the Old Forge parts. It still surprised her that he'd ever take interest in her. They were on completely different ends of the social spectrum. While she tried to duck away from attention, he allowed it to flock towards him.

It was sophomore year of high school when their paths seemed to constantly cross. Her locker was right next to his and she often had to squeeze through a crowd to get to it. They also shared numerous classes and when one homeroom he asked her for help on Mackey's trig homework, she felt an irreversible smile creep across her lips. His soft eyes and muscular build were more than enough to make her heart flutter.

It caught her completely off guard when he waited for her at her locker one afternoon to ask her if she was going to the hockey game after school. She had shrugged her shoulders shyly, never taking her eyes from the locker dial. "Well if you did you should sit with me," he had requested.

Of course it hadn't turned out to be the picture perfect date she had anticipated. She had sat quietly by his side the whole evening while he cheered loudly and joked around with his brother. She felt so invisible that even he had forgotten she was there and when he came back to get her ten minutes after initially leaving the game, she could tell he felt terrible about it.

In fact that next weekend, when the carnival was in the parking lot of the Steamtown Mall he had practically begged her to come in order to make it up to her. That night he won her stuffed animal after stuffed animal and bought her all the funnel cakes and cotton candy she desired. And at the end of the night he gave her her first kiss beneath a chorus of fireworks.

She had fallen in love with him that night, and they had been together ever since. Suddenly her life was different. She was no longer Pam Beesley, the art student who always wore black and never made a sound. Now she was Pam, Roy's girlfriend, the other half of Old Forge's class of 97's Best Couple, and second runner up for Prom Queen.

She no longer existed without Roy, and part of that terrified. The part of her that told her that Roy wouldn't be around forever, the part of her that whispered in the back of her heart that Roy wasn't the one.

Pam frowned as she watched Roy tease the old golden retriever with the Frisbee before launching it across the yard. The water was boiling and the phone was ringing and suddenly Pam felt overwhelmed.

"Hello?" She said taking hold of the handset.

"Hey, Pam it's Carrie. I got your message about the wedding and I would love to be your matron of honor."

She had almost forgotten calling Carrie the morning after Jim refused her offer and now she couldn't picture anybody standing beside her on her wedding day except for him. "That's great," she said with the brightest voice she could muster. "Thanks."

"Well it's perfect isn't it?" Carrie continued. "You've really become like a sister to me and now you're becoming it."

"Yeah, perfect," she agreed.

"Have you set a date yet?"

She frowned. "Nope, not yet."

"Well keep me posted," she said cheerfully. "I'll make sure Roy gets his butt in gear!"

"Thanks," she said before hanging up the phone.

The water was still boiling and Roy was still outside being the perfect family man and the phone was still in her hand while her fingers dialed his number.

"Hello?"

Pam smirked, "I've decided something."

She could hear him release a breathy laugh before he spoke again. "And what was that."

"You need to get a girlfriend."

"And how would this benefit you?" He asked curiously.

"Well if you had a girlfriend then you two could get married and move down the street and we can do couple things together like play scrabble and charades," she explained. "Then we can have kids and they can be best friends or fall in love and we can stand on our porches and smile wistfully all 'Remember when…'"

Jim was laughing again. "You want me to get a girlfriend so you can have couple buddies?"

"Not just that," she reasoned. "This includes a happily ever after for you! Did I mention the kids? Little Jimmy Junior running up and down the street."

"That doesn't sound very safe," he teased.

"You know what I mean!"

"I don't know how easy it will be to find a girl with those expectations," he shrugged.

"It's for our future," she said with a smile. "For the 'Remember when…'s."

In all honesty though, she suddenly couldn’t picture her future without him.