Pam's been working on dragonflies lately. Impressionistic water colors, detailed magnifications of veined wings, attempts to capture the play of light on iridescence.

Pam's first best friend loved dragonflies, chose them as her totem, though neither she nor Pam had any idea what that meant. Her first best friend had dragonflies on her walls, covering her notebooks and folders and embroidered on her jeans. And her first best friend's parents chose a dragonfly to personalize the marker for their daughter's grave. Pam's first best friend fell victim to her own insecurities and the words only she heard telling her the world would be a brighter place once she took herself out of it.

On the day that marks the ninth year since Pam's first best friend laid herself to rest, Pam goes to work, sits, draws, doodles, remembers, smiles, cries.

The man Pam is tethered to by history and a gold band knew her first best friend, but doesn't remember the significance of the day and cruises by her desk with a "Babe" and some combination of "guys, out, see, later." Pam looks at him with empty eyes and chooses the phone over confrontation. One "Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam" later, he is gone and she seeks a few moments haven in the ladies' room. Pam presses a cold paper towel to her eyes, wills the redness and swelling away, not out of vanity, but in an attempt to forestall curiosity.

When Pam returns to her desk, a small bag greets her. Two items reside inside: a card reading "Feel like dinner with a friend? - J" and a jade box whose carved lid is an inset dragonfly. Pam looks to him, smiles lightly, mouths "yes."

She told her last best friend about her first best friend just once, to explain her sadness on the sixth anniversary. He remembers.

Pam strokes the box and knows it won't become home to jewelry. It will live on her desk next to a green teapot. It will harbor a yearbook photo; jinx change; the corner of a French Onion Sun Chips bag; a piece of a jello box; a receipt for M&Ms, 69 cups of noodles, a Night Swept gift set; and a post-it commemorating the genius of Spontaneous Dental Hydroplosion.

This is the point when she knows

She thinks of never seeing Roy again and she is sad. She feels the loss in her stomach and is dizzy and wonders if she will throw up.

She thinks of never seeing Jim again and she is destroyed. She shakes all over and has to grab the counter when blackness tunnels her vision. Her knees weaken and her face numbs. She sweats and shivers. She runs her wrists under cold water then sits with her head to her knees.

She thinks of the effort involved in dissolving a decade-long relationship, but that hurdle is no longer sufficient to keep her restrained. Somehow paperwork, bank accounts and splitting the cds aren't good enough excuses to ignore what she suddenly realizes is a momentous gift. She nearly drowns in shame when she faces what she's come so close to discarding. People pray for what's being handed to her in a gift-wrapped package.

Pam grabs her phone and three seconds later is begging him to answer.

When he does answer, his voice is neutral, guarded.

She asks if she can come see him in a few hours. When he asks why and tries desperately to stomp on the hope struggling to life, she answers, "I really think Roy deserves to hear this from me first...don't you?"

He sucks in air and whispers her name following it with "really?"

"Yes, really. Please, I need to find Roy. Jim, I have to do this right."

When the man who has become the other man in her life answers his phone, she asks him to come home immediately. When he finally gets there, all of the things that are hers alone are gathered in the front room in boxes and bags and he doesn't need the tears rivering from her eyes to tell him that the death knell has finally rung in what has become cohabitation. He tries to tempt her with "Baby" and "Please" and "Don't do this" and "What about all of our plans?" He tries yelling and throwing boxes of her belongings around. He tries crying and collapsing and clinging to her waist.

She explains that the decision is made. There is no talking her out of it. She tells him that she wouldn't undo the last 10 years of her life. She tells him that he will always be the first man she loved and that he will always be important to her. She hopes that eventually they will be able to be happy for one another. She takes as much of her stuff with her as she can fit in her car. She promises him she'll finish moving her things by the end of the weekend.

The war of emotions is exhausting. She mourns the end of a life era while being nearly giddy about the dawn of the next, what promises to be better than she could ever have hoped.

She brakes in front of his home and is out of the car almost before it's stopped moving. His door is open and he's running down the stairs before her car door is closed. Then she's in his arms and he's asking if she's ok; if it's really over with Roy and if she's really sure, but she can't answer him because then she's kissing him.

She tells him she's sure and that she "never knew" she "could love someone the way" she loves him. She repeats "I love you so much" over and over for his benefit. She tells him she's certain and he doesn't think he can ever know greater joy than when she whispers, "I want you to be the last man I kiss for the rest of my life."

He promises to do everything he can to make that want a reality.

That is the point when she knows.

A sudden, prescient vision of his future ran him down, coincidentally, the day the camera crew arrived.

Dwight had destroyed another of his sales. He was sitting at his desk, pondering ways to get back at Dwight when the noise from her desk distracted him, the distinctive grinding fading to whirring of an electric pencil sharpener.

She brought over handfuls of freshly sharpened pencils and started taping them to his phone. Her eyes were narrowed, and the corner of her lower lip was being actively gnawed. Her bangs had slipped down her forehead to mingle with her lashes and they twitched infinitesimally with every blink. He was charmed, utterly.

She was so focused, so intent and she muttered to herself. He only caught a few words, but they were words about Dwight and interrupting sales calls and inappropriate behavior and "unmitigated nerve," he remembered that distinctly because she manage to infuse those two words with vehemence while still speaking under her breath.

He began fitting pencils between the two desks and his heart stuttered when she smiled and winked.

She described it as "necessary retaliatory action" to keep Dwight from "misappropriating" more clients. He couldn't help but notice that she didn't take steps to arm Stanley or Phyllis against encroaching insurgence.

She stepped back to admire their creation and labeled it an unrivaled success. It entered his mind that it looked like they were waging battle against tiny vampires.

When she left his desk, she rested her hand briefly on his shoulder and squeezed. It was an act she had performed hundreds of times, but this time he knew exactly how many seconds her fingers lingered. After she walked away, the warmth of her hand procrastinated fleeing his shoulder and throughout the day, he swore he would catch whiffs of her scent teasing him from the vicinity of that faded hand print.

During one of the many times he turned to look at her that day, she was on the phone speaking in an exaggeratedly calm voice that basically screamed angry customer. In the midst of her soothing she sent him a long-suffering look and rolled her eyes then wrinkled her nose and grinned at him.

He felt an unbelievable lightness in his chest and stomach and smiled at her, all joy. Then, it hit him: she was the most amazing, wonderful, awesome person he had ever met in his entire life and WHAM!, the prescient vision. He was on his way to falling deeply in love with the receptionist.

It occurred to him that it was a very old cliche, but he decided he wasn't that concerned about originality.

Pam is drawing wheat. That is the assignment. Actually, that is her assignment. To be fair, she wasn't assigned wheat per se; she was assigned "plant life." But, sitting in her apartment, on her yard sale couch, Pam can't get her mind off of him. He is forever in the forefront, staring at her, whispering to her, imploring her, distracting her. It shouldn't be such a hardship. After all, he was always in the forefront before he.....left. But sitting on her yard sale couch, she can't concentrate on plant life, and if she draws, shades, or paints his smile, his eyes, his arms or hands, she'll fail the assignment, and even worse, find herself knocking on pathetic's door.

How does one bring something new to "plant life?" How is she going to bring something new? She starts with roses and hates herself immediately. She moves to vines and is disgusted. Beets are not even a possibility. She feels a little more hopeful about the birch trees, but really Bev Doolittle has done for birches what Georgia O'Keeffe did for flowers, and Pam feels so far removed from those giants, that it's just too depressing to do anything reminiscent of either of them. Lavender bores her; dandelions are prosaic; she contemplates vegetables, but feels ridiculous when she starts sketching tomatoes and cucumbers and finds herself blushing. Mind out of the gutter Beesly. And that does it.

She can't not work on his image any longer. She can't restrain herself, but she doesn't want to be that girl, so rather than starting with his eyes or good Lord those forearms, she starts with an eyebrow, concentrating on the orbital ridge and each individual strand that makes up the whole that is his left eyebrow. She works upward and focuses on his forehead and the marks concentration left between his eyebrows. Eventually, she strokes and shades his hair onto the page.

She contemplates that page for a while, then slowly, turns the pad over.

So, Pam is drawing wheat. A wheat field to be exact. Because the shades and motion of wind blown wheat remind her of his hair.

A week later she turns in a piece entitled "Wheat: A Study of Movement and Light," medium: watercolor, color pencil and pastel.

A week after that her professor fails to return her project at the beginning of the class, which is either good, or very, very bad. When he takes the drape off of the easel holding her piece, he smiles at her and makes a statement that causes her to blush out of sheer pride and private embarrassment. "Miss Beesly, would you care to enlighten the class about this piece? You have accomplished something I never thought possible. You've managed to bring a profound sense of eroticism to this field of wheat. Can you tell us what was your inspiration?"

Pam smiles, blushes, glances down to hide the tears that fill her eyes when she thinks about how proud he would be of her for the steps she has taken to change and grow.

She looks apologetically at the professor and politely declines.

They've developed a routine. Not surprising, so much of Pam's life has depended on repetition (motion, action, thought). She shattered the conformity of her movements when she finally got the courage to envision a new life, but old habits die hard, and even though he's her best friend, she needs some stability upon which to rest unsure feet.

So, they've developed a routine. When they (finally) found their way to each other, she shook at the relief of it, but was terrified she'd destroy them. She begged him to be okay with her her need to move at a glacial pace. He had smiled, laughed; pulled her to him and embraced her, held her; kissed the top of her head, her nose, her mouth; told her that if she needed years, he'd survive it, then begged (entreated) her to forget he ever made that statement.

They started dating. Lunches out, hands held over the table, (feet mingling under). Dinner out, comedy shows, bowling, mini-golf, museums, book stores, at least three nights a week. They never stayed in. Staying in wasn't glacial (safety found in public places).

Initially, he came to her door to pick her up, but after a few weeks, his temptation to linger, and (conversely) her desire to drag him inside by his shirt front became too much for each of them, and he began waiting for her in the car. He would turn off the engine and never summoned her by horn, but by cell.

Initially, he walked her to her door at the end of each evening, but after a few dates and goodnight kisses that ended with her back against her door, his thigh high (tight) between hers (her toes barely skimming the ground), hands in hair and sliding down, down, down to pull hips closer (whimper and gasp), he stayed in the car and watched until she was safely inside. He left the engine running and waited for her to pull back the curtain and wave goodnight.

Thirty-seven dates after he stopped picking her up at her door, she stopped fighting herself. They are at dinner when she decides. That night, as always, he had waited for her by the car and opened her door; he had held her hand and guided her through downtown crowds, leading her to an independent showing by local artists. He had taken her to a tiny restaurant lit by miniature oil lamps on each table whose tinted globes cast stained glass reflections over hands and faces. They talk, whisper and laugh (always laugh).

They overhear a couple at a table near them confide to a waiter that they are celebrating decades of wedded bliss. Husband and wife sit side by side, rather than across from one another, and after the waiter leaves she sighs and, for a moment only, rests her head on her husband's shoulder.

Pam smiles at this sight and turns her attention back to Jim. Flame shifts in their lamp and his eyes glow indigo. She catches her breath at the expression there and knows she is (already) his (wife) choice (and has been time after time after time).

Outside her home, he parks and smiles at her. He tells her he loves her and that she has pretty hair. She laughs because she didn't expect a compliment then (she should have). She leans forward and kisses him (not chaste); a sound deep in his throat vibrates breath. Her hand slips under his sweater and he grips the back of her head. He pulls back (eyes closed). She twists the key to turn off the car (permission).

His eyes (fly) open. He whispers her name (it sounds like prayer). He brushes hair from the side of her face and tells her he doesn't expect anything from her; he wants to be certain she's ready. (She's unbelievably ready.) She loves him so much she's dizzy and doesn't recall ever feeling anything as strongly as that emotion.

She says yes and he tells her to hold on, (then) he's crossing behind the car and opening her door. He reaches his arm inside and offers her his hand (she's a lady and a princess). They climb stairs to her door; his hands don't leave her (waist, back, hip) and he stands so close that if he were anyone other than him, it would be invasive. (She wants him closer.) Keys are in her (shaking) hand, but she can't guide it into the lock until his hand covers hers (her constant). Skin contact (electric) shocks them into stillness for a moment, then urges them just to get the (damn) door open.

She walks out of her bedroom (shy) with never-before-seen-by-any-man peacock blue satin slipping over her chest, stomach and thighs. (She wants to be beautiful to him). His back is to her, but he (senses) hears her and turns around. When he sees her, his head tilts to the side and his eyes close; something that sounds like disbelief leaves his throat. (Unbelievable.) With no words he tells her (just like always) she's the most beautiful (loved=lovely) thing he's ever seen (known).

They halve the distance between them and meet in the middle of her front room. He's staring at her like he never wants to look away, like she's the most (only) significant thing that has ever existed. His hand trembles when he reaches for her and she wonders how she could have ever felt uncertainty about them. He is hers (soul-mate, friend, protector) and she is his (soul-mate, partner, love). What they have is rare and precious (exquisite). After all, they were made for one another.

It's not a date. Really, it just makes sense that they go together. It's not a date; it's practical, pragmatic, sensible even. They both want to see this movie, and neither of them knows anyone else who would want to go. They asked around. Really. It's way too early; they are just learning to be comfortable again. So it's not a date. Really.

Really.

They get to the mall too early, accidentally; it is in no way an attempt to spend more time together. (Seriously, it's not.) They kill time at a bookstore, skimming through shelved aisles.

Pam wanders around the end of a shelf and into the next aisle. She's intent on the oversize photography books and doesn't realize someone is standing next to her until he clears his throat and starts to engage her in conversation. He's average height, still taller than her, and built like someone who enjoys the gym. Ordinarily, she'd have been distantly polite, but he's knowledgeable about the photographer whose book she's holding, and it's nice to talk with someone who shares her interests.

She's surprised when he asks her to have dinner with him. She's always surprised lately when men ask her out. For years she spoke freely and didn't worry about censoring herself or that her behavior might be misinterpreted. Apparently, the absence of a diamond on her left hand makes a big difference in the way men perceive her. She feel naive and a little stupid.

When he asks her out, she becomes hyper-aware of the pin-drop silence a shelf width away. She smiles and attempts to extricate herself from the situation gracefully. She should have known better; she's never been allowed a graceful exit. The inevitable words asking about the presence of a boyfriend leave his mouth, and the silence an aisle away listens.

She's nervous and starting to feel sick. Things have been going so well (even though it's not a date), and she's not sure why, but she knows that she has to get these words right. If she doesn't, it will set them back (and she'd like them to go on a date eventually). Silent deliberation and she settles on "unavailable" to describe her status.

Unfortunately, he's the type of guy who takes it personally when a girl declines his invitation, and he won't be put off by vague explanation. Seriously, how does she end up in these situations? She decides she's annoyed now. She's been polite and friendly, and she has done nothing wrong. She's talked to this guy for less than 10 minutes; they aren't even on a first name basis, and he's demanding explanations from her that she doesn't want to give and putting her in an awkward situation.

The large book thuds when she places it back on the shelf. She turns to head back to the untitled silent presence who is the only person she wants to spend time with, and the guy her brain has labeled Tactless Annoyer grabs her arm and makes a statement about how walking away during conversation is rude that she might find ironically humorous if she weren't startled, angry, and a little scared. She hates that her voice shakes when she tells him to let go of her, but then it's ok. The silent presence is no longer a shelf width away, but behind her, warm and strong and support.

The guy's focus shifts from her to up and behind her. Because it's the language this guy knows, Jim's arm wraps her waist, and his hand lands at her hip. An insincere apology mutters out of Annoyer's mouth and he drops Pam's arm.

When he's gone, she relaxes against Jim and looks up. His arm squeezes her protective and a little possessive. They're still unsure about so many things though, and he drops his arm and steps back. Because it's not a date.

He comments that if she wants Twizzlers, they have to leave now because he is not missing previews to stand in the concession line with her. Then he tells her to tell the next Loser that she's either a nun or has the bird flu because, without fail, all guys are afraid either of God or avian viruses. She laughs her Jim laugh, and he smiles his Pam smile and holds the door for her. They walk closer than before heading down to the movie theater.

But it's still not a date. Really.