Sometimes, when no one else is looking, Pam likes to write lyrics on her legs.

It starts innocently enough. E-mail checked, memos sent, messages relayed, and nothing left for her to do. With music making its usual rounds in her head, she looks around and takes in her pen, her lap, and her busy coworkers. She has no better way to spend her time, and she wagers she’s done just about all she has to do for the time being. She looks back down at herself and decides. Dutifully, she takes up her pen.

She has words.

They may not be her words, but they seem like they could be. Something about the merging of ink and words and flesh seems to her to make the song part of her. She wishes she could come up with words like that, but she is merely a simple receptionist.

No, you’re not. You’re an artist. She could almost hear it on Jim’s lips.

She needs this.

She readies her pen. The ritual itself has a vaguely juvenile air to it, but she likes it. She likes the feeling of inexplicable empowerment she gets from having lopsided words of wisdom emblazoned on her body, slanting in paths of human error away from the boundaries of their intended neat lines. If she were a bit more daring, she might get a tattoo. But for now, she has a pen and she has words.

Sometimes it seems like the words are all she has. Sometimes she feels like something’s missing, but usually she’d be surprised if something wasn’t. She has lingered in the background, curled safely into a metaphorical protective huddle as her dreams lay trampled by the trudging forward of a life on auto-pilot, and now she’s left with fluorescent lighting and pencil sharpeners and coffee stains.

And a pen.

And words.

She slides her skirt up an inch and starts writing on the freshly bare space where the hem was.

She likes the words. She likes writing them most of all. She likes the feel of the cool, wet ink on her sensitive skin. She likes the way each song feels unique against her flesh, the letters creating a distinct pattern of dips and loops and crosses. She remembers exactly how each song feels. She remembers that lyrics from the 90’s alternative rock era have a special feel, the ink gliding on in an almost melodious way, curving and weaving repetitively but originally. She remembers that lyrics by The Rolling Stones tend to be rhythmic and upbeat and the rapid movement of her ballpoint reminds her of driving fast and moving faster.

She likes lyrics by Bob Dylan the best. She likes how the words go from thick to thin, symmetry versus diversity, the lines and curves of each letter adding to an endlessly intricate design. The boldness of the questions contrasts beautifully with the mellow undertones, new ideas curling out from under the battered causes.

She writes.

She moves progressively up her thigh, daring herself to hike her skirt up just a little bit more. The thrill she gets from this trivial event makes her feel rather foolish, but she wills herself not to care and moves on to the next verse. The words continue to wind their way up, farther and farther until she is forced to wheel her lower half as far as possible under her desk to hide her lap from view. When she finally finishes, the position of her skirt is creeping towards dangerous. She waits a few moments, then caps her pen and pulls the ink-splotched skirt back down to its proper place. It is time again to be proper, but she keeps in mind those words she has hidden from everyone else, like a little bit of solace for her and her alone. She likes to think that the writing is a testament to her courage, but she might be wrong. It might just be a testament to her boredom... or weakness.

Nevertheless, the words are more than mere words to her.

She always washes the ink off when she gets home. It has become a routine of her shamelessly scrubbing and rinsing the tops of her thighs, perched precariously on the edge of her bathtub. She doesn't like to think about what Roy's reaction might be when her skirt fell away to reveal the lyrics. Roy isn't exactly a man of words, she can't imagine him being overly pleased to find reading material down there. So she washes the words away. Sometimes she cries as she does so, and she doesn't know why.

Jim is a man of words.

Sometimes she likes to wonder what it might be like if she weren’t with Roy.

Okay, that’s a lie.

Most times she likes to wonder what it might be like if she weren’t with Roy.

She likes to imagine what her life could be. She likes the glimpses of opportunity and promise that her wandering mind provides her with, visions of graphic design and terraces with flowers dancing in her head. But more pleasurable still are the little fragmented figments of the sliding of skin and brushing of lips and lifting of hair and entwining of fingers. Flashes of teeth, bared in a sly grin that's wonderfully familiar, in a mouth murmuring nothings that mean everything. And before she can stop herself, it's becoming reality.

Sometimes she plans how she would leave Roy.

She gives in to those thoughts, lets them overtake her, lets the line between real and make-believe blur. She's let love in, and suddenly there is no going back. Not that she'd want to, anyway.

Especially during those moments. Those moments when everyone else has left the office and Roy is nowhere to be found. Those moments she spends alone with the best man she’s ever known.

Sometimes, when no one else is around, Jim likes to hold her and trace the words on her skin with his fingertips and sing the lyrics back to her. Some days he's in a Bob Dylan mood. Today it's The Rolling Stones.

And then the words take on a whole new meaning.