CHAPTER 1: The Meeting

There's no such thing as love at first sight.

Jim Halpert had discovered that once you graduated from college, dreams burned to a crisp. Instead, you ended up trawling through job sites for hours until your patience snapped and you picked anything short of dealing drugs.

Well today, he had avoided crime. Today, he stood on the cusp of an exciting future, as Mrs. Jan Levinson-Gould had proclaimed during his interview. Where was this exciting future? Inside a concrete block that quietly announced itself as Scranton Business Park number 1725. Undoubtedly, number 1725 was not an address, but an indication of how many years he would spend behind a desk.

A company named Dunder Mifflin Incorporated, which, by the way, did not sell muffins or mufflers as the name suggested, felt delighted to offer him a position selling paper. Yes, paper. Jan had told him over the phone that he shone during the interview; she could not think of a more promising paper salesman if she tried. Maybe so. For the interview, Jim had applied liberal amounts of grease to his hair, had been sweating, and had made unrealistic promises.

Now he need only seize his future and the sky was the limit. But where was the sky, exactly? He glanced up, but only concrete filled his view-- concrete and windows with blinds. Scranton Business Park had evidently been modelled on a prison, and he was on the cusp of a life sentence.

Clutching his messenger bag, he bowed his head, entered, and asked the receptionist for directions to his cell-- otherwise known as an office.

For some reason, Jan, determined to sell this job as being delivered from the heavens, had become uncommunicative when he had asked about the Scranton branch's working environment under the regional manager, Michael Scott. Instead, she had turned away and mumbled something into her pinstriped jacket about unorthodox behaviour.

As soon as he mentioned Dunder Mifflin, the receptionist and security guard at Scranton Business Park went from smiles to grimaces. Before either could reply, however, Jim heard raucous laughter.

“Well hello, hello, hello!” said a voice.

A man stood behind him, a man with slick black hair and bulging eyes who puffed his chest and threw his arms out wide. Jim had the sudden fear that if this man puffed his chest any further or threw his arms out any wider, he might burst, spreading glitter and streamers everywhere.

“Good morning,” he said, blinking. “Do you...work here?”

The man pulled a face and stuck his hands on his hips. “Sandra, why didn't you tell the lanky kid I was coming? Practised that pose for hours. Wasted.”

Sandra gave the man a forced smile. “He just arrived, Michael. I'm sure even you can see that.”

Michael. Jim raised both eyebrows, waiting for confirmation-- please God-- that this fanatic wasn't the same Michael Scott who worked for Dunder Mifflin's Scranton Branch.

“That's the way we like it, Sandra,” said Michael, with a manic grin. “Build up suspense until the big reveal. Michael Scott here.”

Jim blinked, then forced himself to speak. “Jim Halpert. Nice to meet you.”

Michael Scott's handshake felt like an iron vice, another reminder that, after finding a regular job, he would likewise be clamped to his desk. What a life, one that had barely begun, and yet he knew every detail for the next four decades. Life was where dreams went to die.

“Shall we?” asked Michael, with a dramatic wave.

Jim followed his new boss into an elevator, making some monotonous remarks about his pleasure, excitement, and dedication to hard work. But Michael Scott wasn't listening. After a pause in the conversation, the regional manager complained about Sandra's attitude, then poked fun of her bra size with a cup half-full analogy.

“Get it?” said Michael, cackling like The Joker from Batman. “Cup half-full?”

Wincing, Jim forced a smile. He wanted to slice off his ears like Van Gogh, but it would be rather difficult to make sales calls for the next forty years.

“And here,” said Michael, shoving the door open with a flourish, “is my kingdom. Far as the eye can see.”

What a kingdom. Paper, paper, paper everywhere. White paper, coloured paper, A4, A5, post-it paper, lined, plain, and every other kind. Boxes of paper surrounded the receptionist's desk, which also had a rack of message slips dotted along its ledge. The arrangement reminded him of fresh napkins at a restaurant, except here, a waiter would surely trip and break his neck.

Paper draped over the sides of every desk he could see and undoubtedly those he could not see. It peeked out of folders, slid off in-trays, poured out of wastepaper baskets, sprouted from files, and peeled off walls.

Where no paper existed, he saw white and green boxes, pens, catalogues, telephones with endless wires, computers, and recycling bins. It was as though every object had insisted that this office deserved no space. Nor should it have silence: the telephones rang every few minutes, and quiet voices answered. So too did the photocopier hum, answered by the growl of a shredder.

Last of all, he noticed life. People existed in this sea of paper, yes-- but they didn't fight the deluge. Instead, they nestled within the sheets until they were almost invisible. Nobody observed his entrance.

“Nice.”

Michael cackled again, marched to the receptionist's desk, and pounded his fists on the ledge like a toddler. Jim would have protested, except he had to save a box of jellybeans that had threatened to spill.

“Pammy!” said Michael to the woman, who had been writing. He didn't apologise for alarming her. “Or should I say, the Pamster? I mean, you do eat a lot of salad. Get it? Anyway, stop what you're doing and meet my new friend, Jimbo.”

Like Sandra, this woman stared at Michael in quiet resentment. But her expression changed when she met Jim's eyes.

“Hello,” she said quietly.

Jim stared.

“Well?” asked Michael, after a pause. “Whatcha say, Jimbo? Do I hear signs of life up there? You are looking at Pamela Beesly, our receptionist here at Dunder Mifflin. See the tag? Receptionist! Old as this office, aren't you, Pammy?”

“It's nice to meet you,” Pamela said, offering her hand. “You can call me Pam. I assume your name is Jim, rather than Jimbo.”

Jim didn't answer; he shook her hand, but was still staring.

“Do you have a last name?” she asked, with a shy grin.

“It's Halford, isn't it?” said Michael, giving him a curious look.

Now he had to speak. “It's Halpert.” His voice had gone raspy.

“OK,” said Michael, “close enough. Pammy here will tell you that I do not remember names: I play with them.”

He glanced at Pam, who gave him another tiny grin before returning to her serious, intimidated expression. Suddenly, he wanted to laugh, but restrained himself just in time. When Pam grinned again, her green eyes were shining.

“Well,” said Michael, drumming his fingers on the ledge, “since neither of you have anything to say, let me say that I haven't got all day to chat. Any messages, Pam? Yes?”

“I gave them to you this morning,” said Pam. Her voice was softer than the cashmere sweater Jim received last Christmas.

To distract himself, he glanced round at the other employees to see what they made of a boss who couldn't remember his own messages. However, everybody else continued working. So he was forced to watch Michael deny seeing any messages, question Pam's eyesight, then, after some needling, finally surrender.

“Pam is such a pipsqueak,” the manager said, turning to him without a hint of shame. “Real uptight about dumb messages and forms. You'll get used to her nagging in the end. Hey Pam, why don't you show our new salesman to his desk, you know, make yourself useful? I'll find those goddamn messages. Orientation video at 10, Jimbo.”

And with those words, Michael Scott, regional manager at Dunder Mifflin, sauntered to another room and slammed the door. Through the blinds, Jim saw him slump into a chair and rifle through his desk, presumably seeking those elusive messages.

Only after that exit did a few people turn around or look up, give Jim a shy smile and then return to work as though nothing had happened.

Hearing a small cough behind him, he turned back. Pam Beesly now stood next to her desk, smiling apologetically. Dressed in a grey cardigan with never-ending sleeves, a rose-coloured shirt, and a pencil skirt, she looked every inch the receptionist. But her hair was golden brown like honey, pinned back from her face and flowing across both shoulders. A dusting of freckles covered her nose. She had inquisitive eyes that sparkled with amusement, and, when standing, leaned to the right with her hands clasped together.

“Hi,” he said, dazed.

Pam blushed and ducked her head. “Don't ask.”

“Methamphetamines?”

She giggled, which made her eyes shine brighter than the ceiling lamps. Then she cleared her throat and offered to show him to his desk. Her voice had such a musical sound; Jim felt he might rob a bank if she asked him nicely.

“Here you are,” she said.

His new desk sat adjacent to that of a frowning, pouting man whose eyes were magnified by his wire-framed glasses. He spoke on the phone with a clipped accent, as though pretending to be British.

Then Jim noticed that the man's name tag said Dwight K Schrute and immediately changed his assessment from a fake British accent to a precise German one.

“Enjoy this moment,” said Pam, leaning close, “because you're never going to go back to this time before you met your desk-mate, Dwight.”

Jim stared at her again, his smile growing even wider. “Thanks, Pam.”

Then he watched her traipse back to her desk, tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and pick up the phone. He watched her for a while, ignoring Dwight's expectant stare and outstretched hand, ignoring Michael Scott's muffled “I found them!” from the room behind, and ignoring the distant sound of a shredder.

Years later, he would remember those words, and he would realise that he had been wrong from the beginning.

Love at first sight did exist.

CHAPTER 2: The Disaster

Questions.

Jim Halpert, staring at the welcome screen on his computer, had so many questions. Question one: Why did he want to sing, sing, sing, sing, like in that Travis song? Because he'd just met a girl called Maria, that was why. Except, of course, that girl's name was Pam.

Naturally, he also had questions about work, none of which Michael Scott would answer.

“It's all in the orientation video,” said the regional manager, patting Jim's shoulder.

A man wearing a 70's tan suit ambled up to his desk, carrying a gargantuan white folder. “Good morning, Jim. Toby Flenderson from HR. You might want to look at these orientation materials.”

“No!” said Michael, swishing his arms like a karateka. “Absolutely not. Do you want him to die of boredom? Go home, Toby.”

Yet after enduring twenty minutes of Michael Scott's Scranton Witch Project video, concentrating on the riveting topic of food labels in the refrigerator, Jim decided that dying of boredom was better than dying of secondhand embarrassment.

When he returned to his desk, he found a bespectacled woman with grey Elizabeth Taylor curls fishing through his drawer.

“Ah,” she said, standing up with an embarrassed smile. She dumped a coffee-stained manual onto his desk. “I'm Phyllis. Thought you might want to read this. It's quicker than Toby's file, and less crazy than Michael's movie.”

The manual was called The Simple Dunder Mifflin Employee Guide. Jim read a page. Then another. After page three, his eyelids drooped; by page five, he gave up. Dwight leaned over to protest, but was cut short when his telephone rang.

Good. Jim seized the opportunity to speak with Pam.

For some reason, the receptionist smiled at her monitor before meeting his eyes. Later, he would blame that reaction for why his unspoken request got stuck in his throat.

“You need help?” asked Pam, trying not to laugh.

“Sort of. Can I have a jelly bean?”

“Sure! It's a communal bowl.” After another silence, Pam said, “Have you settled in after that crazy video? Got used to Dwight?”

Jim smiled, glanced back at Dwight, then leaned over Pam's desk. “He is the most irritating man I have ever met. How is that possible? Wait, don't tell me: I'm in The Matrix.”

“The Matrix? You're such a dork.” Then Pam blushed and cleared her throat. “Anything you need, I'm right here.”

So now he had an excuse for making frequent trips to Pam's desk. After the usual queries, he invented new ones. For example, he needed a new list of extension codes, even though he had a crinkled but readable copy inside his desk. Then, with the greatest of apologies, he asked for a new stapler, not mentioning that his existing stapler only needed staples. He supposedly needed help with his accounts list after that, even though he could have asked Dwight.

Naturally, Dwight took offence at this. “What? You asked Pamela? She's a receptionist, Jim. Why didn't you read the employee guide and orientation materials like you're supposed to? They contain all the information you need in simple, precise language. I finished my copies before I even began working here. Asked Corporate to fax them. Called initiative.”

Jim ignored this, especially since he had a new request: He desperately needed a comfier chair. Even though Dwight had argued that he need only tighten a screw and then he could spin until his brain flew out of his skull, Jim decided that only Pam Beesly could solve this problem.

As predicted, Pam rushed off to the conference room and returned with a brand new chair, smiling mischievously.

“It's Michael's favourite,” she said, then winked.

After exhausting even these enquiries, he still had another problem: Dwight Schrute.

When they had finally met, Dwight had stuck out a hand and said, “Dwight Kurt Schrute here: Assistant Regional Manager of the Scranton Branch, top salesman year on year, owner of Schrute Farms, volunteer at the Lackawanna County Sheriff's department, resident expert in self-defence, all-time Laser Tag champion. And you are?”

Since then, Jim had suffered a cascade of unsolicited advice from Dwight, as dictated by the employee guide and the alleged glory of being a Schrute family descendant.

By early afternoon, he was ready to knock Dwight unconscious, a thought he shared with Pam on yet another desk visit.

“Kill me now,” he murmured, then swallowed three jelly beans.

“I warned you,” Pam whispered. “And there's no point asking the fairy for your life back, because she's flown back to her homeland, Misfortuneson. Off the south coast of Iceland.”

Jim laughed. “Damn it. I may have to take matters into my own hands. Violence is legal in The Matrix, right?”

Pam didn't even let him finish before laughing, and he felt as though he were walking on air. What a charming laugh she had! Next time he visited her desk, he would bring another joke.

In fact, it wasn't even five minutes later before he returned. Oblivious to the stares of Phyllis and a petite blonde woman, both of whom had just finished speaking to Pam, he interrupted again.

“Just to be clear,” he said quietly, “the available weapons I have are limited to a box file or a telephone set. Choose one.”

Pam had taken a sip of tea and now snorted with laughter. Jim smiled again, but this vanished when Michael appeared.

Now, a boss was supposed to work. If not, a boss made sure his employees were working. Jim could only presume that Michael Scott did work, but precisely what work he did remained a mystery. Twice, Jim had peered through the blinds into Michael's office but was none the wiser. He had even asked Dwight, who insisted that Michael was “deep in affairs too complex for a newbie to understand.”

Yet this was the second time today that Michael had interrupted an employee to beg for jokes.

“Look at Pammy and Jimbo, having a giggle!” said Michael. “Come on, spill the beans. Where's the funny?”

Jim realised that he would have to end any conversation whilst his boss prowled the office. At this point, however, he was too new and too nice to keep his mouth shut. Nor could he miss another opportunity to make Pam laugh, so he ruffled his hair and said, “What's the name of the penguin's favourite aunt?”

Michael shrugged.

“Aunt Arctica.”

“That is so lame,” said Pam, giggling.

“It's brilliant!” said Michael. He promptly rushed off and repeated the joke to everyone else. Nobody laughed. Muttering, the regional manager slunk back to his office in defeat.

Jim turned back to Pam. “He always do that?”

“Don't ask stupid questions.”

He laughed again; she did too. Her laughter remained in his head for the rest of the work day, drowning out the sound of Dwight's inane edicts. It mingled with the cautious friendliness of slow-talking Kevin, cynical Stanley, and forgetful Creed. When the jovial accountant Oscar laughed at one of his jokes, he dreamt about Pam's laughter instead.

Later, he met Meredith, or rather, interrupted her in the kitchen as she ripped the security tape from a bottle of vodka. Even that could not dampen his mood. Nor could Angela, the petite blonde, who had a stiff handshake and even stiffer manners.

He needed more time with Pam. Not here, swamped by Michael's craziness and endless paper. Somewhere quiet, somewhere far from Dunder Mifflin. A wine bar, perhaps, with 50's movie soundtracks playing in the background and pretzel bowls.

The clock struck four-fifty. He yawned and glanced at Pam, who had just passed Michael a wad of message slips.

“You just still have these messages from yesterday,” she said, fiddling with her pen.

“Chill out, Pamster. You're spinning in a wheel over pieces of paper.”

As Michael walked back to his office, cackling, Jim got the impression that Pam would stab her boss in the neck like an Agatha Christie villain. Well, he, Jim Halpert, could soon replace those homicidal tendencies with a smile when he offered her chardonnay or pinot blanc.

His plan sounded wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that he zapped the windows on his computer and shoved his folders aside. Never mind the four important forms that Angela had demanded for tomorrow afternoon by way of a greeting.

It was four fifty-eight. Good. A casual approach worked best: He would fetch his coat, then linger around the rack until Pam left her desk. After that, he would act as though he were headed to a bar already, then make his offer.

Four fifty-nine. Jim strolled towards the coat rack, his heart pounding. Then his mind went blank. After desperately trying to conjure up the very words he had invented just minutes before, he covered his delay by fiddling with odds and ends inside his pockets.

Now it was five o'clock. Too soon! If only he had more minutes to waste. Why, after years of asking women out for drinks, had his brain turned to scrambled egg?

Better just go for it.

Then the office door burst open.

A man built like a football player swaggered in. He wore an irritated expression and favoured his left leg. Perhaps that caused his irritation, or perhaps he watched too many gangster movies. Dressed in a grey shirt and jeans, the man carried a brown paper bag, its bottom soaked in grease. He must have worked in delivery, judging by the clothes; Michael had mentioned that Scranton Business Park included a warehouse.

“Hey, baby!” the man said to Pam.

Jim opened his mouth. No sound came out. Removing his hands from his pockets, he sidled back to his desk. Then he watched the man lean over Pam's desk as he had been doing all day. By the time he saw Pam smile and lean close, so close, all the breath in his body had vanished.

“Come on, baby, five minutes,” said the man, smiling impatiently. “This stuff's gonna freeze otherwise. And what's with the crazy long sleeves?”

“I borrowed it from Mom,” said Pam, standing up. “It's cold.”

“Not so cold you can't show off that rock.”

Jim blinked.

All he could do was watch Pam smile and pull back the sleeve on her left hand. Something sparkled on her finger, and his heart dropped right into his stomach.

It was a ring.

CHAPTER 3: The Reversal

What the hell?

A Mack truck had just cut in front of Jim's Corolla on his way home. He swore and smacked his head against his steering wheel, but that made no difference.

Upon reaching his front door, he patted his pockets and found no keys inside. He had left them inside his car, along with his bag.

For God's sake: Let this day be over already!

Once indoors, he stumbled into the living room. Mark, his room-mate, was lounging on the couch with his girlfriend, Isabel. Both had been about to kiss, but pulled away when he entered.

“What's up?” asked Mark.

Jim paused. He had planned on barricading himself in his bedroom and raging into his pillow all evening. Sympathy would be good, though. He had on many occasions bombarded Mark with details about the trail of destruction, otherwise known as his love life.

So, he plopped down on the couch and ranted for a good twenty minutes, only excluding his most embarrassing thoughts.

“Wait,” said Mark, smirking, “so you spent your entire first day at work flirting with a married woman? And you were going to take her out on a date?”

“I had no idea! She wore these long sleeves, and it wasn't even going to be a date...”

Mark and Isabel burst out laughing. So much for sympathy.

“Look,” said Jim, trying to laugh as well, “I didn't flirt that much. And it's just one day. I mean, she was pretty. Breathtaking. Made me laugh so much. Warm. Yeah, she was so great.”

He stared at the wall.

“But,” he said, coming back to his senses, “she's not available, so I'll keep looking. And next time, I'll check first that the lady isn't wearing a massive rock. Onwards and upwards, as they say. I'm not a complainer!”

Isabel frowned. “Wait, if it's just a massive rock, she's engaged, not married.”

Engaged? “Wait, so...”

Then he went red and said nothing more.

It made no difference.

“Anyway, you'll sleep it off,” said Isabel. “You've told us worse love stories.”

Jim pulled a face. Last month, he had broken up with Jennifer, which provoked tears on both sides, and for him, all-nighters watching Titanic. Six months before that, he dumped Hannah. For that breakup, he had watched Jaws, imagining her as the shark. Last year, it was Susan, whom he commemorated with Back to the Future.

His older brothers joked that Scranton would soon run out of women for him to disappoint. Pam had obviously dodged a bullet. Right?

Later, he collapsed onto his bed without an answer. Why on earth had he thought that he was in love? That thought had to be discarded. No, it had to be dropped off a skyscraper. What he had experienced today was a crush, nothing more.

After all, if he had seriously been in love with Pam, he would have taken the time to check her hands before even dreaming of asking her out. What on earth had he been thinking? Nothing, of course. His gazing, absurd requests, and clumsy flirting amounted to nothing more than infatuation, the same sugar rush that he had experienced with Jennifer, Hannah, Susan, and so on.

At least Pam's fiancé hadn't seen anything, else he'd have ended up in an ER.

~~~~~~~~~~

The following day, Jim paused outside Dunder Mifflin's office. Yesterday was a delusion. Today, he was a new man, sailing through his dead-end job while planning for a real future. He finally had ambition. Maybe he would even call Jennifer after work to see if he could revive their spark.

Nodding, he pushed open the door, hung his coat and scarf with unnecessary care, and avoided the receptionist's desk.

“Hey, Jim!”

Damn it.

He spun round to find Pam smiling at him expectantly. Once again, his mind went blank. “Ah, how's it going?”

“Great. By the way, were you all right yesterday?”

“What?”

“Oh, I just saw you staring at your computer while me and Roy were leaving?”

Jim's eyes went wide, then he quickly pretended to laugh. “Oh right, yeah, it was just an email I forgot to send.”

Thankfully, Pam accepted this story, giving him an opportunity to sit down. A new piece of information distracted him, though. Roy. Her fiancé's name was Roy. Well, good for her.

Good for her indeed.

On a whim, he took a jelly bean and smiled at Pam before sitting down. Only after leafing through a folder did he realise his mistake: smiling at Pam a second time.

In the car, he had calculated an average smile count of once per hour, usually for basic favours. Speaking of favours, he was only entitled to four per day, two in the morning and two in the afternoon. Under no circumstances was he to lean over Pam's desk or make jokes.

Just as he launched into his third sales call, however, the receptionist stopped by his desk.

He hung up.

Pam wore a sky blue shirt and was fiddling with a gold necklace under her collar. She smelt like lavender blossoms, Tide pods, and something indescribable, like sunshine.

Imagine if she had worn these shorter sleeves yesterday. What a coincidence.

“By the way, I filled these for you earlier,” she said, gesturing at the very forms that he had foolishly ignored. “If not, Dwight will get mad. And he's already mad.”

Jim snorted with laughter, then stopped abruptly. Only laugh politely, he had said. Excessive amusement led to flirting.

“Thanks, Pam.”

“Well, just thought it would help.” She tucked her fringe behind her ear, but it slipped loose again.

Fortunately, Dwight's return from the kitchen prevented him from wondering whether her hair felt like silk.

Jim had discovered yesterday that Dwight Schrute was in fact assistant to the regional manager, not assistant regional manager. He could only assume that the kind of man who needed to lie by omission like this did so to justify frogmarching through the office, gripping his flask like a police baton and glaring at everyone except Michael Scott.

“So,” said Dwight, running his finger down a list, “Pamela had to fill Jim's forms, and it's only his second day. Tell me: How did you get this job again?”

Jim leaned back in his chair, finally smelling an opportunity for revenge. “Corporate told me that they couldn't think of a better salesman if they tried.”

Dwight stopped moving his finger. “Nonsense.”

“Oh really?” He spun around and grinned at Pam. The receptionist shook with silent giggles. It was another mistake, but, as he had Dwight on the hook, he could not back out. “All right. I'll tell Jan that Dwight Schrute called her an incompetent liar.”

He pretended to reach for his phone, causing Dwight to backpedal faster than a cyclist on the interstate. Man, this was too easy.

“And,” said Pam, unexpectedly, “didn't Jan also say that you would become the top salesman in Pennsylvania within six months?”

“Right!” said Jim, slapping his forehead. “How could I forget that? Honestly, she gave me so many compliments that I lost track of them all.”

Dwight looked so horrified and so pained that Jim averted his eyes and kept quiet. But when the assistant muttered something about Jim probably banging Jan, he happily forgot his guilt and continued inventing compliments.

After Dwight stormed off to the photocopier, Pam leaned close and said, “How do you make all of that up with a straight face?”

“With great skill,” he said, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat. “Actually, Jan did say the part about not finding a better salesman, but I think Dwight would die if he knew that.”

He had expected Pam to laugh, but instead, her eyes were wide.

“She really said that? Wow, you must have made a great impression.”

Jim was speechless. Even though Pam soon had to take a call, it took him precisely seven minutes before he could continue selling paper.

~~~~~~~~~~

At lunch, Jim waited at his desk until Pam had disappeared into the kitchen. A customer service assistant named Kelly Kapoor soon followed, before both headed into the break room.

Now was his chance. He retrieved his own lunch, muttered a vague hello to the others and then followed the pair.

His plan had failed. By ten-thirty, he had broken his rule about not visiting Pam's desk frequently. He had also broken his rule about unnecessary smiles. The only victory he could claim was not interrupting her work to repeat another stupid joke, but that was only because he had overheard Kelly Kapoor begging Pam for details about her wedding at lunch.

So here he was, pretending to eat. Stupid? Not necessarily. He had run into the truth by accident, so he might as well hear the gory details upfront.

Well, not exactly upfront. Kelly first babbled about Hollywood A-Listers as though she knew them personally before saying, “So, tell me about the wedding, Mrs. Anderson! When is it?”

Jim winced. Cursing himself quietly, he began packing away his food.

Then Pam spoke.

“Well,” she said, with a bashful smile that made his heart skip another beat, “I think maybe in six months?”

“Oh my God,” said Kelly, covering her mouth, “I am literally gonna cry.”

“Totally,” said Pam, now giggling. “Or maybe eight months. Still, I don't want to wait too long, so maybe six. Even five. I don't know. We'll see.”

What a remarkable answer. Confident and indecisive at the same time. Jim couldn't help raising his eyebrows, though the information made his heart sink like the Titanic. Before he could guess the reason for Pam's indecision, the receptionist glanced at him.

He quickly opened a packet of Cool Original Doritos and began munching.

“Oh my God,” said Kelly again, “I would so tell him to speed it up. Like, if I get engaged, we're running off to the courthouse by the end of the week. Can we go dress shopping this weekend?”

Jim stopped eating, packed away his food, and left.

Back at his desk, he stared blankly at his computer screen. Instead of its sea blue background and Dunder Mifflin logo, he saw images of Pam in a white gown floating down a red carpet. Pamela Beesly, soon to be Anderson, her curls spilling across her shoulders and her sparkling green eyes full of love for Roy.

He rubbed his forehead.

God, he needed to forget this stupid crush right now. 

Chapter 4: The Information

In fact, forgetting his crush right now ended up meaning 'not today'.

Jim sat on his bed after work, clutching his phone. What did Thomas Edison say? I have not failed. I have found a thousand ways that won't work.

Well, he had found two ways, both of which failed, so that left only 998 other methods.

Calling Jennifer was method number three, certain to help him forget Pam. Three's the charm, as people said.

Yet ten minutes passed by, and he didn't press a single digit. His tongue had frozen; he couldn't even focus on the screen. His mental collapse reminded him of when he had broken up with Jennifer. Unable to explain his reasons beyond a vague feeling that something wasn't right, he had just said, “I don't know. Let's break up.”

Jennifer's insults still rang in his ears like tinnitus, hence his subsequent late nights binge-watching Titanic. If he called her now, she'd want to know what made him repent. Maybe if he used a Dunder Mifflin sales pitch, listing all the benefits of returning to her old supplier, she would relent and allow him to forget the last two days in her arms.

Maybe.

He leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. Words would come.

Except, they didn't. Instead, he saw images of a woman with honey-brown hair, who was fiddling with a blue pen. Then he heard a ghostly phone ring, and the woman reached for her receiver with a bored, yet resigned expression.“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

Jim smiled, dropping his phone into his lap.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Dunder Mifflin, this is...”

By six, he had forgotten Jennifer.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the second day of his new resolution, his efforts began surprisingly well: Pam wasn't at her desk.

But at eight-fifty, she crept in with a guilty smile, trying to conceal a Michaels Art Supplies carrier bag. Then he heard rustling after she sat down. Perhaps her fiancé, suffering from post-engagement fever, had given her a present.

Next minute, Michael entered, and he saw Pam hide whatever she was doing.

“Mitchell and Sanderson want callbacks,” she said, giving Michael some message slips.

“Why didn't you tell me before, Pamelax? Get it? Because you're lax with communication?”

Jim shook his head and continued filling an invoice. Poor Pam. Still, the mystery of the rustling paper continued, whether it was any of his business or not. He hadn't spent most of his childhood reading Hardy Boys stories for nothing.

Besides, this mystery had a link with yesterday's mystery, during which Pam had also smiled guiltily as she scampered off to the kitchen for a pot of yoghurt, then spent the next ten minutes savouring every morsel. Her smile only disappeared once the pot was empty. So, this was an important clue; detectives always sought consistency.

Once Michael had gone, Pam brightened up. He watched her dash to the photocopier, trying to hide a white book. After shoving this below the lid, she pressed about a hundred buttons until the machine began whirring and flashing. Then she dashed back to her desk with her secret cargo.

Was she a spy? Not that it was any of his business if so. These mysteries had shipwrecked his ability to 'forget the crush'. Then again, detectives were surely obliged to see a case through to the end, all personal issues aside. Once he had wrapped up the Beesly case, he would retire from his one-man private investigator firm and return to selling paper.

This much he knew: Pam wasn't working. As far as he could see, the only things she enjoyed about her job were using correction fluid and blowing over it two or three times, and shredding documents. In fact, those rituals had distracted him yesterday afternoon.

“Jimbo!”

He blinked and turned. Michael had left his office again. “Yeah?”

“What's happening with the daycare account?”

“Oh!” Damn it. The daycare account was a priority, yet he had just spent half an hour staring at Pam! “You know what, I was just about to--”

“No, he wasn't,” said Dwight, smirking. “He was staring into space. Maybe we should do a drugs test.”

Jim apologised and grabbed his phone. He'd get his own back on Dwight later.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Jim needed an expense form later, he strolled over to Pam's desk. This time, she wasn't there.

He shifted from one foot to another. When she still didn't come, he peered over the ledge.

Paper. Floods of paper stretched across her desk. Pam also had dozens of post-it notes stuck everywhere, filled with neatly written to-dos. The blue Bic pen, her trusty ally against Michael Scott, lay on a coil bound notebook filled with yet more tasks. Next to it was a pot of correction fluid and a Green and Blacks chocolate bar.

Aside from that, Pam had crammed knick-knacks into every available space-- assuming there was space. Five pink stress balls, a mini pillow saying “I love you”, unlit candles, a snow globe, a paintbrush, and God knew what else. She also owned at least three pen mugs, all chock-full of Bics, HB pencils, and markers.

Her gold necklace trailed across another notebook filled with yet more to-dos. How many to-dos did a receptionist need? He craned his neck and read one list.

Give Michael messages. Ensure Michael reads messages. Apologise to clients because Michael didn't read messages. Kill Michael.

He laughed quietly. Then he read a list from a few days back.

Print passwords for Jim. Help Jim set up computer. Show Jim necessary machines/rooms. Get Jim extension codes list. Get stapler for Jim. Explain sales account procedure to Jim. Find comfy chair for Jim.

Not only had Pam ticked each request, but added a smiley face, a gesture that almost brought a lump to his throat. Little had she known that his last four needs had been fictitious. Come to think of it, he should have asked Toby for most of the earlier requests.

Today, he would print his own expense form.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Guilt worked. By two-thirty, he had passed a whole three hours without visiting Pam's desk. Congratulations!

Instead, his arms hung limply by his sides. Three hours spent dialling every number under the sun did not deserve congratulations. What had he accomplished, other than repeating a script about quantities, tonnage prices, transit logistics, and budgets ad nauseam? Worse, each call demanded more paper, turning yesterday's deluge into a full-blown siege.

Three hours... and another forty damn years to go.

He dragged himself to the kitchen in search of sugar. Apricot jello usually did the trick. Before he closed the refrigerator door, he saw a pot of mixed berry yoghurt sitting in a corner. It had expired yesterday. Oops. No work snack for Pam today.

Yet no sooner than he returned to his desk did Pam vanish into the kitchen and return with a jubilant smile.

She was holding the expired yoghurt.

Dropping his jello, he rushed to her desk.

“Pam!”

She jumped, dropping her spoon. Well, he had won half the battle.

“Ah, this might sound weird, and there's no reason for me to know this, but that mixed berry yoghurt you're about to eat has expired.”

Pam's eyes went wide as she read the pot. Then she giggled. “Nice save!”

He shrugged with an awkward smile, watching her traipse back into the kitchen. On the verge of leaving, he noticed a pack of Prismacolor pencils on her desk, along with a receipt from Michaels Art Supplies and a half-finished pen mug sketch.

Raising both eyebrows, he picked up the drawing. It was the peach mug, complete with its pens, pencils, and markers. Pam had even included shadows that made him want to reach into the paper.

Wow.

He was about to replace the drawing when he saw more sheets underneath. The top sheet had mandala designs, some already coloured in. A white book was propped against the ledge. Mandala Art: 300 Spectacular Designs!

Well, that solved the photocopier mystery.

Pam had stuck a blue post-it note to the art book. Sudoku championship, BeesKnees2000. Times per square: 7m30, 6m40, come ON!

He laughed, then carefully replaced the drawing.

Two hours later, while insisting to a grumpy principal that she needed to change paper supplier, he was still smiling. BeesKnees2000. Pam clearly wasn't as modest as she appeared. It was cute.

Damn it. He'd have to forget this crush tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The following day, Jim noticed four new pots of mixed berry yoghurts in the refrigerator while replenishing his supply of jello.

“I checked the expiry date this time,” came Pam's soft voice from behind. She was smiling awkwardly.

“Good to know,” he said with an equally awkward smile. After a pause, he added, “Can't have you poisoned, otherwise who will help me mock Dwight?”

Pam laughed, then brushed a lock of hair away from her face. Her engagement ring flashed in his eyes despite his best efforts to ignore it. Sure, the rock was smaller than he had thought, but that didn't change the message: Pam was off-limits.

Outside, he could hear Michael shouting about Corporate, a noise interrupted by screeching telephones.

Inside the kitchen, time stood still.

“I sometimes don't even read the label at the supermarket,” said Pam, leaning to the right again. “So it figures that I wouldn't read the expiration date, either. Lucky you were there. Thanks.”

After she left, Jim stared at the door for a minute. Had Pam really followed him into the kitchen to discuss expired yoghurt? Surely not.

He rubbed both hands over his face. How many days now? Three, yet she still left him defenceless. Tomorrow, he would put in a superhuman effort to conquer these feelings.

But that commitment just echoed in his skill. No fire of ambition burned in his veins. Instead, new memories filled his mind. Pam's colouring pencils, her drawing, her one-woman Sudoku championship, her post-its... even her favourite mixed berry yoghurts. Fragments of her life that drew him closer, not further away.

Surely that didn't contradict his mission? Despite Pam's humour, he had seen glimpses of vulnerability in her eyes just now, a silent cry for protection. His protection, maybe. What with Michael Scott and the drudgery of reception work, she needed someone. He could be that someone-- as long as he suppressed this damn crush.

“Jim!” Michael stuck his head round the door. “Meeting, buddy.”

Sighing, Jim followed.

From now on, he would only care about Pam, not admire her.