Jim gets everything he’s ever wanted because of a rather confusing avant-garde movie, and because of the sheer contempt that Pam has over his Netflix queue.  To most people, impulse involved something simple—something normal—in an unplanned fashion. 

           Hey, we were going to sit around and watch TV tonight, but instead let’s go bowling.  How quirky and cute of us!   

But, apparently, when Pam Beesley gets bored, it’s a whole other sack of potatoes.  “I want to do something impulsive,” she said. 

Jim would remember those words years later as he recounts the story to their children—about how two people that took four years to get together managed to get married after only four months—all because of how much Pam hates Jim’s taste in movies. 

            On a Wednesday night over a bowl of popcorn and the latest baffling movie choice, Pam lost her mind.  She was laying across the couch, her head in his lap, counting the chips in the paint of his ceiling for some negligible for of entertainment.  That’s how much she detested Jim’s inexplicable taste in avant-garde foreign films.  Give her Bruce Willis blowing up stuff, give her Samuel L. Jackson pistol whipping random bad guys, and give her sword fights and inexplicable explosions. 

She idly wondered how hard it would be to hack his Netflix account and add some stuff that didn’t suck. 

That’s when it happened, that’s when she finally cracked. 

“I want to do something impulsive,” she announced suddenly.    

            He considered this a moment before responding.  “You don’t say you want to do something impulsive.  You just do it.  If you talk about it, it’s not impulsive anymore.”  Pam smiled as Jim ran a hand over her hair.  He touched her like that sometimes, a random brush of lips over cheek, relaxed sweep fingers over her collarbone, a casual hand on the curve of her hip.  It was like he felt like he needed to check and make sure she was still there, as if she had any intention of going anywhere. 

            “Well, I want to do something impulsive with you,” she corrected. 

            “Think of something impulsive to do, and I’ll be there.”

            “Any parameters?  Anything you won’t do?”

            “No nudist colonies, no swingers clubs,” he said automatically.

            She snorted.  “Well, crap.  I’m clear out of ideas now.”

            “I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of finding an alternative to that mess.”

            “Can I borrow your computer?” she asked, tapping a finger against her lips thoughtfully. 

            “Sure,” he said, nudging the pile of newspaper and magazines on the table with his foot.  “I think it’s under there somewhere.”

            “Weren’t you supposed to be working on the presentation for the Memorial Hospital meeting tomorrow?”

            Jim shrugged, leaning his face against his elbow.  “You know I’m better under pressure.”

            “No, I know that you still don’t give a crap.”

            “Semantics.  Now be quiet, woman.  The game’s on.”

            Pam rolled her eyes at Jim’s definition of “the game”—a pale, deathly looking French adaptation of an Arthur Miller play. 

            She was signed onto the internet within a few clicks of his well used laptop.  She pursed her lips and began typing random words into Google, eyes widening as a pop up ad gave her an idea.  “Hey Jim,” she said, elbowing him softly.  “Hand me my purse?”

            Not noticing her sudden devilish grin, he reached behind him and snagged the strap of her bag off the corner of the couch, passing it to her, impressively without ever breaking eye contact with the screen. 

            She wondered how much he was really paying attention.  “I love you,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. 

            He blinked away from the screen a moment, his eyes meeting hers for a long moment before he smiled, slow and bright.  “I love you, too.”

            Pam grinned and yanked her credit card out of her wallet before she could change her mind.