She notices him hanging on the edge of the doorway before he speaks—before he knocks, even, it’s like there’s some kind of sixth sense involved, and it’s a little freaky but she doesn’t really care because he’s here and that’s all that really matters. Once he does knock her attention is so focused on him she forgets what she was saying, forgets everything except the sound of his voice, which sounds like Jim. It sounds like “the mixed berry yogurt you’re about to eat is expired” (a conversation she’s embarrassed she remembers, but which shocked her so much with the realization that this man cares and you care that he cares and this matters that she stood stock still for an inordinately ridiculous amount of time before thanking him and throwing it out) and it sounds like “you’ve got to take a chance on something sometime, Pam” only the subtext of “with me” is now the main text and she doesn’t have Roy or ten years of history to worry about (only four years of history with him and six months of Karen, and Karen is his problem anyway, though she hopes he’s dealt with that before asking her) and it sounds like 27 seconds of silence on a boat on Lake Wallenpaupack (and yes there are sounds of silence, thank you very much Simon and Garfunkel, but that’s not exactly what it means) and what it really sounds like is “I’m in love with you,” only she doesn’t just get to hear it once, she thinks she might get to hear it every day for the rest of her life, and she gets another chance to answer him and this time she’s going to get it right goddamnit. And she manages to say “yes” and he’s saying “it’s a date” and suddenly she feels like she’s found the end of the sentence she was trying to get out last May, and it’s “I can’t wait.” Only she will wait, but it’s OK because she has a date (a date! With Jim!) and he hasn’t actually told her when the waiting will stop but she figures they’ll figure it out because if they’ve gotten this far there’s really no way they’ll fall at the last hurdle, right?
She notices his presence strewn throughout the office, too, when she finally makes it out of the little conference room: he’s not there anymore, but there’s a little Post-It stuck to her monitor saying “gone home to freshen up pick you up your place 6:30?” with a little smiley-face drawn in the corner and she thinks she could kiss the paper she’s so happy. But it’s not just the little smiley-face or the Post-It that tell her Jim’s been here (her Jim, not that impostor who’s been hanging around the last few months). The angle of his chair is that little bit askew that tells her he sat down and got up in a hurry (making dinner reservations maybe, or forwarding his calls to voicemail?). The stack of papers on his desk, which has been alarmingly organized for the last few months, is back to what she thinks of as its native state of disarray, with everything all hodgepodge (she smiles as she remembers every time she’s teased him about it and his constant response: “I’m getting to it.” Well, he got to it, and now she’s so, so relieved it’s gotten away from him again). She can’t really imagine that he’s actually bothered to go through anything in that stack but it seems like a sign from God, like some sort of cosmic signal that everything is as it should be, like the stack of paper heard him ask her out for a date and just sagged itself back to normal. She even notices the angle of the computer monitor, because it’s off and she’s standing where Jim usually sits to look at it, and it’s reflecting back her own empty chair. And she’s pretty sure he would have had no reason to move it today (she wasn’t even at her desk when he was here, she was in the conference room after all) so what does it mean that it was pointing at her? How long has that been going on?
She doesn’t have time to think about that though because she has to get everything settled so she can get home and get ready by 6:30, and so she’s sitting back at her desk and tidying up when she notices a few other things.
There’s a folded up piece of Dunder Mifflin medium-weight stock (eggshell) stuck under her keyboard that says “you don’t need to dress up,” and when she picks it up and looks on the other side because she can tell there’s writing there too it says “I think you look lovely in pink.” There’s a postcard sticking out of her purse that she doesn’t remember owning: the backside says “it’s a little far away for tonight, but maybe some other time?” and the front is one of her favorite Rothkos from the Met, a delightful splash of red on canvas. And finally, as she manages to get her coat on and hurry out the door at five, there’s a sheet from a memo pad stuck unobtrusively in the pocket of her coat that just says “I could never forget you. Can you forgive me?”
She makes it to her car before she breaks down and cries, but no further, because on the windshield of her car, where a cop would put a ticket if you parked illegally, there’s a single Gerbera daisy. It’s kind of battered by the wind outside, but it’s definitely the thought that counts here, and she slides it out from under the wiper and sticks it in her hair on an impulse.
Tonight is going to be a good night, she decides. Sure, things have been awkward, and she’s not sure entirely where they stand even now, but he said “date,” and this little trail of objects reminds her entirely too much (or rather, entirely, because she isn’t sure there can be a too much) of the “bonus gifts” he left her in her teapot, and she’s simply decided that this all has to be a good sign. And that means she’s going to get ready (even if she doesn’t need to change, according to the note) and she’s going to think positive thoughts. Because by now she’s pretty sure she’s earned them, and if Jim Halpert is going to finally live up to them, she’s not going to be the one standing in their way.
