Dress casual. What kind of casual? Business casual, casual-casual? What if he was joking, and I end up way under-dressed? I rummage through the bottom dresser drawer where I keep my jeans (both pairs) and a couple of skirts I don’t wear to work. I change a few times: skirt, jeans that are too snug, jeans that are too loose, skirt, skirt, jeans that fit like a dream.

I finally decide that the first skirt I tried on is my best option. It’s not like I have to make a first impression, right? Better not think too much about it, or I’ll change my mind.

After the long shower and insane amount of time I spent working on my hair and applying make-up, I don’t have any time left to waste.

Time. Oooh, Pam; check the time!

I forget I have a clock in the bedroom, and run down the hallway into the living room. I glance at the clock.

6:13.

Well, while I’m here I might as well…Good, no car in the driveway.

I grunt in frustration as I trip over a sweater on the floor. No time to wonder how it got there, though. I scramble over to the closet, and spend too long searching for something I know I don’t own, and settle on a light pink cardigan over a cream colored tank top.

I’m standing in front of the mirror. I look myself up and down, side to side. The skirt is modest, and the more I stare, the less I like it. The sweater looks fine. Looks like me.

That’s what’s wrong. The skirt - it’s a blue jean skirt that stops right above my knees.

And it’s not me.

Jim would never expect to see me in something like this. Too bad, I suppose. I’m already wearing it.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, seeing his writing on the inside of my eyelids: "No turning back now."

I go over to the closet and get a pair of small white heels. Brand new. Short because heels always made Roy feel "inferior." Why do I even have these? Why would I even consider wearing them on a date with Jim? These were supposed to be for my wedding that I should never have agreed to in the first place.

I slip out of my body, not realizing what I’m doing. I’m sure that even if I could really control myself at this moment, I’d still be slipping those shoes back into the box and throwing it in the trash.

Sneakers. White sneakers. They’re fine.

They’ll have to be, it’s 6:47.

I look in the mirror one last time. I don’t recognize myself with my hair down and a jean skirt.

OK, now I’m worried. Is this the Pam he wants to see? What if he wants "secretary Pam," with my hair half-back and boring office clothes. What if he wants "Sunday-in-the-park Pam," and I should be in jeans and a t-shirt? Is this casual enough? Too casual? I wonder where we’re going. Maybe I’m way under-dressed and he told me to act casual to make a fool of me because he thinks that’s what I’ve been doing for the last five years…

Doorbell.

6:57.

Peer out the window. Halpert. I forgot that man makes his own schedules – and alters it at will.

"I uh…Just a second!" I yell, and it’s taking everything I have not to run to the door. "Jim—" I say as I’m opening the door, attempting to scold him for being early. Unfortunately, I notice what he’s wearing tonight and lose the other half of that sentence. Dark jeans and a pin-striped, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt’s untucked, and the tails hang a bit below his black blazer. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing.

But none of this makes it out, and I’m extremely saddened that it all stays bottled up. I’m not sure why. Those are things I’d never say to anyone, and yet, a part of me dies when I can’t say them to him.

Because he’s not just anyone. He’s Jim.

"Oh, damn; wrong house. I should, uh…" He turns to the side and sticks his thumb out, in the direction of his car.

"I, uh…You’re early." I manage.

I give myself a mental high-five just for being able to speak.

"No, really…I’m at the wrong house. I’m so sorry, Pam!" He turns and jogs towards the car.

I panic for a moment, and he knows that I’m panicking, even with his back turned towards me. Then I realize whose back I’m staring at.

I’m staring at the back of his head, like I have so many times before. And it doesn’t feel any different than any of the other times, because for a minute I’m not sure he’s going to face me until he’s in the drivers’ seat. He’s walking – no, he’s running away.

"Jim," I start. And I can’t finish. I see him reach into his car through the open window and pull out a bouquet of white carnations. There’s something red in the middle.

He walks back slowly and asks if I have a vase (but says it "vahz," with the slightest trace of his ego taking over).

"Yeah, in the kitchen." Great, now I’m doing the "turn to my side and point with my thumb" move.

He steps up and is about two inches in front of me. He holds the flowers out for me to take.

And I’m reaching out to him, like I have so many times before. And he pulls his hand back, just like he has so many times before.

This isn’t helping. My stomach is in knots. A slow smile spreads across his face.

"Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s hot out here."

"What, afraid you’ll melt, Halpert?" It’s insanely odd to be joking with him, especially here.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a staring contest, only he’s allowed to blink. I feel something tickle my arm. He’s brushing the flowers up and down my arm.

"I…Uh, do you want to come in?" I ask. "The vase," I pronounce it "vays," with extra emphasis, just to bug him, "…is on top of my fridge. Um, this way?"

While I’m arguing with myself, he’s showing himself to my kitchen. I hear him get the vase down and fill it with water.

God, I’m a mess. Shut up. Go to the kitchen. I shut the door and head into the kitchen, where he’s dropping something into the water, and then he inserts and centers the flowers just so. He slides a card underneath the vase and walks over to me, placing a hand on the small of my back.

"Open the card when you get home tonight, okay?"

And I’m speechless again. Shit. I smile and nod a little, because I seem to have control over nothing else.

"Chester’s sound okay?"

His hand is gliding up and down my back, starting at the top of the skirt and stopping at the clasp of my bra. His hand is moving so lightly that I barely feel it, but it’s more than enough to send shivers down my spine and make my knees weak. Chester’s, I remember.

"Chester’s?" I ask. What the hell is Chester’s?

"Yeah, you don’t like their stuff?" He looks puzzled.

"Oh, uh…No, not that. I’ve never been."

"Aaaand you’ve lived in Scranton how long?" He pokes me in the back.

There go my knees again. Stupid knees.

"Shut up." I smack his arm and can’t help but laugh at his pouty and hurt reaction. "Chester’s, it is."

He leads me back into the living room, his hand never leaving my back. I reach out to open the door, and he stops me by reaching an arm out to hold it shut.

He’s laughing at my futile attempts to get past him, push him out of the way and open the door. I’m fighting my way in front of him and once I manage to pull on his arm enough that his entire body shifts, the arm disappears.

And now both his arms are around my waist, picking me up with ease and I’m laughing and play-fighting and…

The dojo.

By the time he finally puts me down, we’re both blue in the face from laughter.

I’m leaning against the door now, trying to catch my breath. It turns out to be a wasted effort because about a second later, he’s kissing me – hard – and stealing any breath I had left.