I.


It was cold that day.

She could feel blue shuffling through her veins and goading all traces of warmth to her fingertips as she pressed a charcoal pencil into her sketchbook.

A loose curl dangles in front of her eyes to distract her from the harsh realities of what she is sketching. She sneaks a glance and catches him sneaking one at her and she flushes sunset red. She swears she can hear him sighhh as she pretends to concentrate on her work because maybe he won’t realize that she can’t help but think of him, either.

Swift lines cover the minute weave of the eight and a half by eleven sliver of paper as her hand briskly moves, defining each line into a curve, shape, and being. She doesn’t know why she always uses him as a subject of her drawings. Whether it is his eyes, how his fingers fiddle with his tie, or the way he gives the camera a goofy grin whenever Michael pulls a “thatswhatshesaid”, Pam always seemed to drawing some facet of him and there was no end in sight.

And no matter how much she tries to convince herself that she focuses on him because there is nothing else, she knows, deep down in the ache of a midnight cry, that he’s the only thing worth making a dream about.

Abruptly, she reaches for the alluring mouse and clicks three times to open an instant message.


PBeesly: I miss you so, so much.


Her brow puckers as wishes she had the courage to do it.

Just one click.

Just one.

But she fights herself and loses.

Then she snaps her finger and with a click the message is destroyed in defeat to defy and she continues to draw his hand with hers.

She lets out a sigh and for a moment she feels lighter. Her heart flutters anxiously as she sees the beauty beneath her quivering hand. A tear crests her hazel iris and she clenches her lashes tight.

She catches herself before she peeks above her sanctuary of reception to once again snatch a glimpse of him. She inhales slowly and presses forward, knowing the only way to get through the day would be to shove the thick sketchbook under her desk and forget how each page is littered with Mrs. Pamela Halpert, scribbled hearts, and portraits of his flawless visage.

Maybe the reason she keeps seeing shadows without the sun, rainbows without rain, and stars with no moon is because she is so sick of being content with a life she can’t continue to muddle through.

Unexpectedly, he stands and takes a few steps to her desk, his eyes on hers. She looks up at him and blatantly smiles, the way she always does, because she needs him to think she’s happy.

“Do you have any extra rubber bands? I was going to ask Dwight but I figured he needed them for slingshots.”

“What, like I don’t need them for my slingshots?”

“Not really. Slingshots aren’t your thing. I was thinking you’d use paperclips to make swords. They’re more convenient and not to mention classy.”

“You know me too well.”

She reaches for a handful of rubber bands nestled between a stack of post-it notes and a role of tape. She hands him the clump and their fingers brush and suddenly goose bumps begin sprouting across her arms. She blushes and smiles to cover her bashfulness and he smiles, too.

He opens his mouth as if to continue the exchange, but feebly smiles instead and walks back to his desk. She has to grip the edge of her chair to stop from screaming out loud and thinks "Okay, okay, okay" over and over again to soothe her red hot cheeks.

She watches him with clenched teeth and squinted eyes as he pushes his fingers against his face and hovers over his keyboard, attempting to suppress a sigh. Dwight grins slyly at the intruding camera and mumbles something to Jim. Jim slowly turns his glance to meet her hazel eyes and they dart from his doleful gaze. She closes her eyes and wishes for words.

Maybe, if she tried a little harder, she could replace all the if’s in her life with a reason as to why she is wasting her life dreaming of someone who doesn’t dream of her.

Or so she thought.

It is the time of the year where he can’t tell the difference between day and night.

Speckles of light dance around his computer screen as he taps his finger in unison with the ad blinking in front of his eyes.

“Click here NOW for a FREE list of your future LOVES.”

He sighs and hits the X in the corner, wanting so badly to cross off this day as another marked failure in his aching life of nothingness.

Sometimes he goes for days without feeling any ounce of happiness that usually stumbles into his life. But then he remembers all the times their fingertips brushed, all the sneaky laughs that slipped past their lips, and all the smiles that spread miles across their faces and he can’t help but think about how much she is to him.

He stares blankly at his computer screen as the lights above him refuse to dim. He feels like he’s being interrogated by emails from his friends asking how he’s doing and what he’s been up to. Truthfully, if he had to put his sorrow into words, he’d write about how he can’t sleep anymore, how he barely listens to his favorite songs because the lyrics that mean so much to him remind him of the girl that means too much, and how he can’t look people in the eye and say, “yeah, I’m fine,” because he knows all too well that he’s completely lying.

His eyes wander from email to email and his throat tightens as he closes each of them. His breath catches in the back of his throat as she stands at reception and reaches for her coat. His eyes follow her movements and suddenly his every dream is standing in front of him.

She smells of lavender and honey as she perches herself on the corner of his desk, her curls coming lose from the taut grasp of the constraining clip. He looks into her hazel iris’s like he always does – he pushes aside the thoughts of how beautiful her eyes are when her cheeks flush red, how appealing she sounds when she can’t think of the right words to say, and how much he hates himself for not doing anything about it.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m going out to get lunch at that new panini place – you want anything other than your regular ham and cheese?”

“Nah,” he replies and is about to continue when Dwight interrupts.

“Jim, it’s really lame to consume the same products for every meal.”

“I agree with you, Dwight,” Pam begins, leaving Jim’s mouth open with laughable shock. “Jim here isn’t the smartest crayon in the refrigerator.”

“There’s no need to tell – what?” Dwight retorts while Jim watched the exchange with wide eyes.

“Jim’s not the smartest crayon in the refrigerator.”

“I know what you said, Pam. Crayons do not belong in the refrigerator.”

“That’s where I keep mine.”

“That is unethical. Even Cylons from Battlestar Galactica do not keep anything in refrigerators, and they’re considered the weird ones.”

“Dwight, what does that have to do with anything?” Jim questions sarcastically.

Pam interrupts, “When I was little, my mom put my crayons in the refrigerator so when I drew with them they wouldn’t break as easily.”

“Are you serious?” Jim asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Absolutely,” she smiles as she uses his favorite term.

Dwight’s eyes narrow as he turns back to his work, clearly annoyed by the encounter. Jim and Pam share a smuggled laugh complete with raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and crinkled dimples. She gives him a quick wave before leaving for lunch.

It’s moments like these that leave him breathless – so haunted through and through by her absolute charm and ability to take over his mind that he plainly forgets to breathe. And even after one hundred and fifty six taps in the shoulder, forty seven playful smiles, and one reason, he’s still convinced he can get over her.

He has to learn to live with his life on paper and forget the feelings – her scent, the feel of her, and remember only how they never had a chance, remember only what they gained and lost by their ever-altering thing they called a “friendship.”

He fiddles with his tie and blinks three times as he wonders how long it will be before he can hear her voice soothe the awkward office aura. He thinks about how horrible it is that he can barely make it through the day and wonders why he let himself fall this far.

Maybe, if he attempted to smile when she looked him in the eye, or talked to her when the all-too-familiar ring of the phone neglected to dissipate in the office air, or even acted like he was happy with how smiley she looked to not be in his arms, maybe he could replace the sick, twisted feeling in his stomach whenever he thought about how much he wanted to call her his.

He cannot tell if he is crazy or just confused, but either way, the ache of knowing how she doesn’t know is enough to keep him up at one thirty six in the morning, hating himself for hating her.

But he did not realize how she never saw the zzzz’s either.

When her pen hit the paper and she started to write the unfamiliar number combination cut with slashes, she felt the rush of a sigh because it felt so good to know that another month was over.

Every morning she puts on a smile and replies to his windblown hair and black corduroy jacket with “I’m fine, how are you?”, and he always responds, “I’m doing great.” She hates how she can tell he has either been crying or looks like he is going to. She hates how she knows he is only smiling to disguise his struggle with words as if they were shards against his tongue. She hates how she can smile back because that’s the only thing she knows how to do. But mostly, she hates how he puts on his mask, too.

Her fingers pluck at the staples seamed to the languid forms atop her desk. She exhales and checks the clock, her eyes drowsy from the lack of a laugh. An email that arrived in her inbox three weeks ago grows dusty as it approaches its doom in the Old Mail folder. She hates how she tells her friends that she is doing fine, because her vessels burn and her heart pangs with disapproval because she knows that they know, too.

Stabbing pulses are like knocks at the door in the middle of the night as she stares blankly at an assortment of bright paperclips that are scattered across her desk. She’s screaming inside as he stretches, his lean arms reaching toward the pale ceiling as he looks up because he is so sick of looking down. He sighs a tempestuous sighhh and his eyes flicker to meet hers, their glance fleeting and bashful with sweaty palms and gradient pulses.

“Ladies and gents,” Michael begins, barging through his office doors. “I have an announcement to make.”

“Does it have to do with the mold I found in the refrigerator this morning? Because to clarify, that mistake was taken care of. Kevin.” Dwight shoots a glare at Kevin as he mutters to himself with a smirk.

Michael sighs angrily, “No, Dwight. Look everybody, three people from this office need to go over to Chili’s.”

“I have no problem with that,” Stanley states.

“No, Stanley. Not you.”

“I got this covered, Michael,” Dwight retorts as he stands, his mustard colored shirt drastic against a deep brown.

“Why Chili’s?” Jim asks.

“It’s a long story,” Michael replies.

“It’s only three thirty. I think we have time.”

“You know what, Jim? Why don’t you just go so you can find out. I’m sure that waitress, oh what’s her name? Katrina?”

“I think its Kathleen,” adds Phyllis.

“Nope, it’s definitely Katie,” says Creed.

“Whatever!” Michael interjects, annoyed. “I’m sure Kathleen or Katie or whoever will like it much better if Jim was there rather than Dwight.”

“But Michael!”

“Want me to order you a fried chicken platter? Or maybe the soup of the day with a side of breadsticks…” Jim ponders, his sarcasm only noticed by Pam.

“Michael, what if I go? Katrina might not be in today and I’m sure Larry would like it if I were there,” Pam suggests.

“Pam, you’re brilliant! You and Jim go. Besides, three people could get messy,” Michael exclaims, relieved.

“That’s what she said,” adds Jim.

Pam snickers as she snatches her coat. Jim grins and suddenly looks devastatingly tempestuous as he pushes his hands into his coat pocket and they delightfully pace out through the office doors.

“So the plan is to ask the manager if Michael can rent out Chili’s for an all-night Movie Marathon birthday party?” Pam asks as they march toward Jim’s car.

“Complete with six waitresses, unlimited refills, and disco lights,” Jim laughs, his eyes bright as Pam’s laughter fills the frosty air around them.”

“Oh, definitely disco lights. No party is complete without the disco lights,” Pam giggles as they pull out of the parking lot and towards the office’s favorite restaurant.

Silence is uncommon during the eighteen and a half minute drive to Chili’s because Pam is so consumed with Jim’s voice, the way his eyes glow when she laughs, and how his voice crackles when he sings to the loopy songs on the radio that she continually bargains her way to new conversations, jokes, and karaoke tunes.

They complete their task with a big red X and head back to the office to tell Michael the unfortunate news. The idea of a Movie Marathon birthday party was dubbed “insane” by Katie the waitress as soon as the words “rent out” left Jim’s lips.

“So I never realized how well you know Katrina,” Pam jokes, concealing her jealousy with a forced laugh as they drove back to the office.

“Katie,” Jim replies, his smile also forced. “And yes, I know her pretty well. But not well enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know her favorite yogurt flavor.”

“Oh,” Pam whispers, her eyes wide.

“And I don’t know if she likes to pull pranks. Or if she is an amazing artist,” Jim explains, concealing the morose background to his words.

“Jim…”

“Or if she has a fiancée,” Jim breathes, his voice on the crest of becoming a whimper.

The rest of the drive home welcomes silence with open arms as snow begins to trickle through the white sky. “You Make My Dreams Come True” and “Passing Afternoon” seep from the radio, each minutes long enough to make them forget how they aren’t talking.

The return to work, the rest of the day pushing on their shoulders like a heavy cloud, threatening to burst with showers of sorry’s, tears, and it’s always going to be like this.

As the clock hits the relief of five, she waves goodbye to him after smuggling smiles as counterfeit. He waves back and the spirit in his eyes tells her that he’s begging for change, too.

She goes home after her adventure of ignoring her lust and curls up against plush pillows with a cool bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream and watches reruns of Sex and the City play on her too-small television screen. As she pretends to be relaxed she can’t help but think of when his hand unintentionally brushed against hers as they shared a laugh, or when they knocked knees under the lunch table as a prank on Dwight became a whisper, or even when they waved goodbye under the rising moon and above the gravel of the parking lot.

As she watches Carrie and her friends frolic throughout the bustling streets of New York City as their cliché lives unfold on the glass screen before her, she wonders if she would ever be the one to get broken up with. It’s never been that way for her. When she stumbled through her teenage years, she always felt guilty when she muffled cries against her pillow in the early morning because she never felt like she deserved to feel her throat tightening or her hands trembling underneath straggled sheets. She did not have many boyfriends – two and a half (oh, the truisms of kindergarten love) to be precise – and she hated how she could not realize how lucky she was to not feel the true twinge of an angry, love-stricken, two-week plunge into the depths of a merciless break-up aftermath.

The worst part is, she knows how hard it is for Jim to act smiley around her like he always manages to do, but she wants – and needs – him to feel worthless because she knows it is the closest she will get to feeling tortured and defeated, herself.

She flicks off Sex and the City, sick of the perfection that her life will never be, and lays in the darkness of her bedroom as she engulfs the loneliness that creeps against her skin. Moonlight trickles through the window pane and caresses her pansy-painted toes and she shivers as the digital clock flickers twelve sixteen.

She crawls into bed and flicks off her light and feels her throat constrict as she muffles “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay” into the midnight bedroom air. The moon smiles outside her window, its dark affect creeping along her skin and through her nervous glances. Her fingertips glide to a clump of sheets and she tugs them closer and drags her legs against her chest.

The moon knocks on her window and screams for her to smile, too, but she knows smiling will only make the walls of her loneliness stronger.