There is a moment, like a lot of people say, when enough is enough. She wonders now why she never listened before when she heard that kind of thing, because the idea had always been so elusive, so fleeting, and she used to believe that even when you hold a lot inside of you, there's always room for more. Things change when she's cleaning up her kitchen one night, thinking about chances she may have missed, and she runs out of dishes to dry long before she runs out of times that she could have had something, but didn't. She sort of wants to throw a plate, maybe--or cry, or run away, but instead she falls asleep that night wondering how she can make things different where she already is.

It's true; Pam does still sit at the same old desk, just like she always has. She's given up on thinking that it's some sort of illustration of her character, or weird symbolism for her lack of motion in life. Really, it's just a desk. She does move her computer back to its old place on the other side, though. While she's doing it, she tells herself (and others) that it's because the glare is really bad and it's making her eyes hurt, but the light's been the same for years and that's not it at all. When she finally gets everything organized, her Post-It notes stuck just exactly the way she likes them and the monitor tilted at the perfect angle, she sits facing the wall and even though she's got a lot less room than she did before, she finally feels brave.

It's a step, and she's not even sure how, but she knows it is. She's still the same old person most days, but once in a while she feels something like boldness bubble up inside of her. It feels like when you're trying really hard not to laugh; it starts in your stomach and ends up caught in your throat but you can't let the noise come out of your mouth, so it just sits there inside of you. At first it had taken her a while to figure it all out, but eventually she puts two and two together when she realizes that the feeling always precedes her wanting things to change and she decides that she'll consider it confidence. She's learning to do the first thing that comes to mind whenever that happens, like moving her computer. It's a step.

The thing is, she does love him, and almost a month spent trying (failing) to make things work with someone else (who she knows will never be the one for her) doesn't make that go away. She wonders if anything ever could, but she's facing the wall now and it's just her and her new confidence. She doesn't have to see him if she doesn't want to, and she likes that. What kind of thrills her is that if she ever decides she does want to, she can make the effort to turn around and look, because before it was just watching and she's not watching things anymore.

* * * * *

She goes from swearing off watching to swearing off waiting to swearing off wishing, and the process is a series of difficult moments that she would never take back, even if she had the chance. She finally learns what it means when they say it's a slow burn.

* * * * *

Something strange happens, and it's on a day that she spends a lot of time laughing with people she now finds genuinely funny. People like Toby, whose usually hidden humor she kind of gets, or someone like Phyllis who comes up with things that no one ever sees coming. She realizes she's changing, because these people and their jokes used to seem so faded and bleak in contrast to the sharp, saturated color of someone else who'd always made her laugh. What happens is:  she decides that she isn't who she was and neither is he and maybe that's a good place to start over.

When she sits back down at her desk, she opens the address book in her e-mail and types in his last name, rather than just scrolling down like she would have done before just to stall. She types in the subject line: Come over later. She almost uses a question mark instead of a period but she decides that she's not really asking. In the text area, she types her home address, and then clicks send. The old part of her is glad she's facing the wall so that she won't have to see his reaction, but the new part of her isn't afraid of no anymore.

Forty-three minutes pass by when finally her e-mail alerts her of a new message. The subject line reads: What time.

* * * * *

She doesn't cook or clean or get dressed up. She stays in her work clothes because that's how he's always known her, and maybe that means something.

When she opens the door to let him in, she sees that he's still in his suit and he doesn't take off his coat when he comes inside, but she thinks that's okay.

"You came," she says. She bites her lip.

"I said I would, right?" He has his hands in his pockets and a look on his face that tells her he's waiting, waiting, waiting.

"I still wasn't sure." She pauses. "She won't like this."

"I realize that."

"Does she know?"

He sighs, and nods. "She knows."

"What did she say?"

"Do you really want to talk about that? Is that why I'm here, Pam?" His eyebrows are knitted and all she wants to do is to smooth out the confusion on his face with her hands and her lips but he just asked her a question so he probably wants an answer.

"No." She moves a step closer, her head down.

"Well...what do you want to talk about?" He sways a little, and she thinks he's going to step away but he doesn't.

"Me...you. I don't know. Us." Her voice is quiet when she says it, but she takes a chance on looking up after she feels it might be safe and now he's the one with his head down.

"There's never been...that," he says, his voice throaty.

"Maybe there should be," she whispers, and she thinks that if the volume of her voice gets any lower he won't be able to hear her at all.

"Maybe it's too late." He steps in, and the gap between them holds too many questions and thoughts that she just wants to punch through, so that she can finally touch him.

"Maybe I'm sorry," she says, a little louder because she needs him to hear it.

He sighs again, and turns away from her, towards the door. "Maybe I am, too."

"Jim--" she calls out, and he faces her again, an impatient expression in his eyes and mouth.

She moves fast and then she's up against him, her body crashing into his chest. He doesn't move at first but then she takes his face in her hands and pulls it down to her, and she feels his the tautness of his arms against her sides and his palms sliding down her lower back. She doesn't know if it's her or him anymore but her lips meet his and he doesn't struggle, doesn't move and he's holding her, holding her.

"I couldn't," she breathes into his neck, her nose pressing against the roughness of his jaw. "I couldn't just let you leave." She lets herself cry, and her tears leave wet spots on the collar of his shirt.

"Pam, I--" His lips move against her cheekbone.

"Please," she sighs. Her hands move down his chest and the new part of her (the part that can't take it anymore) makes her tug at his coat, wanting him to pull it off, which he does.

He kisses her, kisses her, kisses her; her lips, her cheek, her throat, and he whispers, "I can't--things can't be like before."

"I know," she mumbles. "Me neither. They can't."

She pulls him towards her little couch and she's horribly clumsy about it. She trips on his feet as she guides him by the wrist and he sits, pulling her on top of him. It's awkward and she doesn't know whether to kneel or lie down so she sits between his legs, and she lets him touch her over the fabric of her shirt, but she's too eager and she wants, so she undoes the buttons for him, slides it off. He kind of gasps, they're both kind of gasping, and she takes his shirt off for him, only moving her lips from his when she pulls his sleeves over his hands.

He slides his hands around her back and pulls her down so that she's lying beneath him, and he's over her, warm and strong and steady. His lips move over her collarbone and she lets out an "oh," and it makes him lift his head and smile at her and she catches his mouth with hers. He slides his hands over her bare waist and runs his fingers over her hips, catching them on the waistband of her skirt and tugging gently. She pulls it down and works on his belt, her hands struggling with the thick leather. Then it's them, undressed, and it's them, together and he's inside of her, and it's his turn to "oh."

He moves, she moves, they move, and when she begins to feel it rising up inside of her she doesn't want it to be over, not yet, because it's barely just beginning. But he quickly breaks her down and she shudders against him, letting him do the same against her. His weight is comforting and sweet on top of her, and she listens to their breathing, he breathes then she breathes, he breathes then she breathes. He lifts himself up unto his arms. "Sorry for crushing you," he whispers, his chest heaving.

"No." She smiles. "You're not. I want you exactly where you are."

He drops back down, pulling her into him so that they're resting on their sides. She feels his nose pressed into the back of her neck, nuzzling her hair, and his arms tighten around her stomach. She holds her hands over his and presses back into his chest and they lie there, just like that, quiet and breathing and together.

"You moved your computer." She feels his lips move against her hair, his voice vibrating into her skin.

She sighs. "Yeah. I did."

"Why?"

"Because," she says. "I got tired of sitting in the same old place."

She hopes he gets it, and maybe she'll explain it to him later when she tells him everything.