He stores them in boxes, carefully, in the car, in his closet. He keeps them to himself, under the mattress, in the pocket of his jacket, in his tool box.

He looks at them more than usual lately. On coffee breaks, between calls, when he pulls a prank on Dwight and he can’t laugh with her afterwards. She’s in New York, after all. The distance establishes a great struggle both of them are bound to face. Somehow the dull constant pain in his chest is more bearable when he holds her photos, close, over his heart. It makes him feel less alone. As if she could appear, out of nowhere from the second drawer of his desk, tiny and glimmering and willing, and they could chew the fat over coffee.

Some of them are blurry, others have too much flash it’s almost impossible to guess when they were taken. Most of the time she’s making faces at the camera or he’s giving him bunny ears. Sometimes he has his eyes closed and her hair is messy.

But he doesn’t care.

The beauty overfloods from them. The sheer uniqueness of what they had, what they have and what they will accomplish.

He decides he’s going to visit her this evening. Take some photos, renew their love.

That thought makes him smile.

Decisions are always hard because you know you will always lose something in the end.

Decisions are always hard because it means you have to risk and gamble, be fierce and hardcore, and never look back.

Decisions are always hard because you won’t be the same afterwards. Because there’s no going back once you’ve taken the choice.

She has been at a crossroad, all her life. She’s been fighting her desires, the wild path, the wintry unknown, the fire and the wind. She’s been choosing the safe route, the comfort. She’s been contenting herself with easy solutions.

Decisions are tricky because you have to take them alone. Because no one is going to help you on this.

Decisions are difficult because it means leaving behind a part of yourself. It means listening to two screaming voices scraping against your ears, tiring your eyelids until you fall asleep, exhausted. It encapsulates the feeling of being eaten alive.

Decisions are hard because you know you’re going to hurt one of the sides. And you don’t want to. You want things to stay the same.

You want not to be in love with your coworker. You want not to be dreaming over his eyes. You want not to see him everywhere, in your dreams, on the desktop of your computer, in your TV screen, when you had sex with your soon-to-be husband last night.

Decisions are painful.

But decisions have to be taken. The time is now.

You lift your gaze from the document you were reading and see Jim smiling at you.

Oh, how you loathe yourself for choosing him.

I am drunk and I am so fucking drunk and the floor floats underneath me and the images of my coworkers are blurry and is Oscar wearing a corsage? I mean that looks like a corsage, isn’t it? And why am I here? Oh yeah, right, today’s Halloween and I am dressed up as superwoman. We’re having a party, alright. Oh my God, I want another vodka punch. It tastes bad but I can’t get enough of it. I down one with Meredith. And another one. And another one. I laugh out loud.

And Michael is talking to me right now but I have no idea what he’s saying. I’ll just nod and nod and nod and nod again. I will tell him I have to go to the bathroom. Which is actually a good thing because my make up is completely run over my face. I’ll go to the bathroom. I take the stairs. One step at a time, Pam, one step at a time. You don’t want to fall down and break your bones.

Oh, Jim’s here.

And he’s so… oh my… he’s so… handsome. And he looks hotter than usual. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. And he turns and smiles and tells me what I’m doing here. And I’m dumbfounded and I don’t know what to say. I forgot why I went to the ground floor. I ask him what he’s doing here instead. He’s telling me he got of sick of the party, he hasn’t had a good day. I wonder why. Oh, okay, because you didn’t sell that much paper. It’s okay, Jim. I’ll comfort you. I’ll embrace you. Tight. See? Are you better now? Yes, you are right.

And his muscles under my arms are warm and, man, I want a piece of this. I start rubbing my hands all over his back touching him and I don’t know if it’s the alcohol but I want him. Now.

So I kiss him. And he pulls back. He’s asking me what I had to drink. He accuses me of drinking too much. He asks me, again, what the hell did I drink. I don’t know Jim, I don’t care. Just kiss me again. And when our lips meet all of his body responds. We only stop to breathe air.

He smiles knowingly again and takes my hand and we go to his car, to his house. Possibly to have the best night of our lives.

* * *

The next morning Michael tells me I never came back after I went to the bathroom. I can see he’s not happy with me.

The worst thing is that I have no idea were to begin.

Or if I should.

This feels like something new.

It’s difficult to explain. It feels like a new start, though it’s not. It feels so pure and fresh, like the morning dew on your bare feet.

It wants to scream life.

They want to go to the top of the mountain and shout, release their adrenaline.

They feel their blood pumping.

This feels like something new. Although it isn’t. Because it’s been inside of them since they both first met. Since they had their first coffee break together.

Jim sees her walking down the aisle in her long tight white dress, and her red hair cascades doing little sommersaults against her shoulder. And her cheeks are soft and pink and their smiles are blinding.

The faces of their coworkers wearing fancy suits and dresses are a sample, a dull display of what he is feeling. And he has no doubt she is the same when she finally reaches to him and he takes his hand.

Her teeth are little pearls shimmering in the daylight. Her green eyes are watery. She is beautiful and everything he ever wanted.

He wants this. He wanted to make her happy. They wanted a marriage. After three angst-filled years and sob-less cries this feels like a well-deserved prize.

It is difficult to explain. In this chapel, everything feels new.

Her dress, his suit, the cool air, the hymns that the songbirds sing in the background. Weeks will pass and all this novelty will decay, this building will fall.

But the fire of their love will remain endlessly.

Jim looks at Pam and he looks back. They feel a tingling sensation on their stomachs.

They feel the burning already.

It all started on a Saturday morning.

She was tidying up the house while he did the lawn work.

She found the videos in the darkest corner of their attic.

Now what?

Her first thought was to doubt her skills in bed. That insecure nature of her shielded all the other sensible options.

Her second thought was to think he was a man, actually. That all guys did this. Jim was never the one to match the stereotype but he was still a guy nevertheless. He talked about basketball with his friends and he walked into their kitchen with mud filled boots and he burped when drinking beer.

She decided to let it go and finished cleaning. She went outside to see whether he had finished his task or not.

She found him in the middle of the garden, with a grass stained shirt soaked with sweat between his hands. His bare chest glowing in the sun. His tight jeans pressing his legs.

Pam obviously lost her train of thought.

Her next reaction was to go to him and smile. He put his strong arms around him, the hairs on his chest tickling against her cheek.

She took his hand and lead him back into the house. She had an idea.

Where did she leave the video camera again?

It’s not the taste, it’s the smell.

It’s not the flavor of her saliva or sampling her lip gloss in your mouth. It’s not the vanilla of her white soft skin or the strawberry of his lips. It’s not using the cup she just used so you can taste the scent of her teeth on your tongue. It’s not the hidden chocolatey kisses you want. It’s not about wanting to taste her until she screams.

It’s not the touch, it’s the smell.

It’s not the electricity that flows through you everytime you touch her. It’s not the sensation that you could do anything, that you could excel at everything if she was by your side. It’s not the warmth of her hand on your knee. It’s not the tight embrace she gave you yesterday. It’s not the sweet friction of her skin everytime she kisses you on the cheek, like good friends do.

It’s not the sight, it’s the smell.

It’s not about being paralyzed everytime you admire her beauty, her delicate frame. Her unruly hair, her green eyes, her pink cheeks. It’s not watching her delicate fingers moving along the keyboard typing documents. It’s not worshipping their speed and thinking how they could held you, endlessly. It’s not professing your love to her beautiful body.

It’s not the sound, it’s the smell.

It’s not hearing her musical laugh, her sweet voice, her mouth pronunciating words like ‘Do you have anything to do after work?’ or ‘Roy has to work tonight, I thought we could have dinner together’ or simpler things like ‘I could buy you a coffee if you want’ or even ‘Tell Michael I already signed the forms for him, okay?’. It’s not the noise of her shoes getting louder and louder everytime he comes to your desk.

It’s the smell.

It’s that addicting smell. The one that permeates from every inch of her body and haunts you. The one that makes you want her and have her right on Dwight’s desk. The one you think about on endless nights. The one that makes you anxious and needy. The one that overwhelms you.

It’s that fucking smell. The one you crave for. But will never be yours.

Pam molded her hands into a fist and pressed them so tight her knuckles got icy white. She was pissed. Michael went to a party in New York and left Jim in charge of The Office. So, mostly she was angry because Jim, her boyfriend, the love of her life, ordered her the horrific task of having to organize the bills of the last 4 months. With Angela.

She couldn't believe it. Couldn't grasp the idea that Jim made her done the most tedious chore ever, with the most boring and shrill woman ever. She was really disappointed. She downturned her lips and furrowed her brow and pouted. She silently whined because this was not only about going through word documents and having to deal with a woman who would criticize everything you did. This was about your boyfriend (the person who's supposed to cherish you forever, to love, to nurture you) messing with you. This was below the belt.

It was half past eight when she left work. She almost ran into a car on her way home, just because all the furious emotions inside her were blurring her senses a little bit.

Pam didn't know how, when or where, but someday Jim was going to pay for this.

She entered her home, not smiling, not greeting Jim who was tumbled down on the sofa watching TV absently in a short sleeved white t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Hi Pam -" He stood up from the couch, reaching for her.

"Don't talk to me." Pam's voice was severe and mechanic, robotic, cold.

"What did I do?"

"What did you do? You have the nerve of asking me what the hell did you do? You set me up with Angela skimming through forms until half past eight. Don't you dare to ask me what you did."

"OK. Calm down, I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

But Jim thought it was bad indeed when he got to experience her metal cutting laser look. Which was probably one of the most frightening things she had seen ever. But he started reaching for her fingertips, seeking her warmth all across the arm until he reached her shoulder, and he could see he was trying to fight all the rushing emotions off and not succeeding at it.

Pam wanted to be angry. But couldn't.

"I'm sorry Pam. I am an idiot." He kissed her tenderly on her jaw. "I am such a stupid person." He placed a kiss on her cheek and ran his lips across her eyelids, the tip of her nose until he reached hers. And Pam felt the joy rushing through her, saturating every pore of her body with a wet heat that made up for every form checked.

"Do you want to... you know... get more comfortable?"

Pam smiled wickedly.

"Okay, but *I* will be the one giving commands now."

And she had the assurance, that that night, she would get her revenge. And it would be a sweet, fierce one.