Your initial reaction after turning around and seeing her open the door is to laugh. After all, you explain, the look on her face alone was enough to make anyone giggle. Add to that the image of Michael hopping behind her with his underwear in hand and you’d have been crazy not to laugh.

           Pam disagrees and lets you know so with a smack to the back of the head.

That was five minutes ago. You snort again with the memory as Michael’s blinds reopen and he shoots Pam a look that attempts to be contemptuous but winds up curious.

Your computer dings and you look up to see a fresh instant message window.

            PBees: Breakroom. Please. Before I vomit.

You nod slightly, imperceptible unless seen by an expectant eye.

She straightens her new blue t-shirt and stumbles shakily to the breakroom. You watch her collapse into an empty seat at the table and wait one, two, three minutes before getting up and sauntering after her, desperately hoping no one notices.

Dropping quarters into the soda machine, you hear her shudder and it only makes your smile grow wider.

You hand her the cold bottle and decide it’s best to stand behind her. Safest, actually, in case you happen to let a chuckle escape.

You glance out the window and see that no one is watching, so you place your hands on her shoulder and begin to squeeze gently in the soothing rhythm she prefers when you get back to her apartment after a long workday (when she looks like she’d rather be Jan’s psychiatrist than go back to work the next morning). She seems to relax a bit.

You’re both quiet for what seems like minutes but which, in reality, is probably only seconds, before she speaks the first words between you two since before lunch.

“Oh, G-d.”

You had wiped the smile off your face, but you feel it begin to tug at the corners of your mouth again, mischievous and childlike. You resist and respond quietly,

“You hanging in there, Beesly?”

She shakes her head and you shake yours, though for entirely different reasons.

“I just saw Michael naked.”

“Well,” you argue, “only half naked.”

“The bottom half!” she cries, and you nearly break then and there, but hold it together for your relationship’s sake.

“Yes, Pam, the bottom half…” you begin slowly and decide, as her tension fades beneath your fingers, that it would be safe to tread the water here, “Now, tell me, did you enjoy it?”

“Jim,” she breathes warningly, but you know she won’t get mad because it’s your fingers that are giving her that dazed look right now.

“Because if you did, technically I should be jealous…”

“James…”

“But, you know, if this is true love, which it looks to be to me, I think it would be best for me just to step aside. Let it run its course,” you feel her shoulders quake slightly and you know it’s in laughter, so you continue, “I don’t think that finding your soul mate is anything to laugh about, Pam.”

“Oh,” she sighs, “but if it’s Michael, you’ve got to laugh or else you’ll wind up eating your own hair in a sanitarium.”

The smile that had been threatening to overtake your lips finally escapes and you drop down into the chair next to her.

You both break into hysterics, laughing to the point of tears, and you let the welcome release of tension wash over you like a warm summer rain. When the giggles subside, you catch her eye and she grins broadly, clearly resisting bursting with laughter again,

“Jim, I just saw Michael’s… thing.”

You nod, your mouth mirroring hers,

“I know you did, Beesly.”

“I’ll probably have to quit.”

“With good reason.”

“I just… wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Never a dull day at Dunder Mifflin, huh?” You shake your head and she sighs, “Ironic, no?”

You agree with her and move to stand up. With a glance out the window to check that no one’s eyes have strayed to your rendezvous, you press your lips to her temple and drop your voice dangerously low,

“After you’re done with Michael, just remember that I get a turn too.”

She smacks you, that light girly smack that hurts more than you let on, but you let her get away with because it’s her and she’s touching you.

Later, when you’re putting your shirt back on after doing your talking head, you see her out of the corner of your eye, watching you with mock disapproval. But the way her eyes dance dangerously belies her amusement and you wink at her (you wonder afterwards why; you’ve never winked before in your life) and she winks back, laughing (clearly at you, not with you).

In later years, you’ll wonder why, but at that moment, you owed your new life, in part, to Michael Gary Scott.