It had been a mistake to stay at The Comedy Roasters all day, Pam admitted to herself as she felt her eyes cross again with exhaustion. But as she looked back on it, she couldn’t actually regret a single moment of it. Yes, she had come home only just before dinner (thank goodness she was still living with Mom and Dad—the thought of making dinner for herself after dragging herself home would have been a killer, and Jim unfortunately had already had plans to hit the gym with his roommate, Mark) and so she was only now, in the dark of night, finally affixing new paintings to her walls. And yes, it was probably a little bit dangerous and definitely a lot bit annoying to have to figure out a level, properly tack on the Command strips, and hoist her art above her head (why had her parents bought a house with such high ceilings? Who had made a house with such high ceilings, and why?). But would she change any of that for having spent less time with Jim today?

No, no she would not.

Not even though she had really not had that many chances to hang out with Jim during the day. The Comedy Roasters had been fairly slammed—oddly enough, Michael’s extremely weird approach to marketing, mostly consisting of chatting up random strangers in the bars that lined the street and talking up his shop, seemed to be working—and Jim was much (much) better at running both the cash register and the espresso machine than Michael, so he’d been the one manning the front the whole time. But since she’d decided that she rather liked watching him in his element, that hadn’t really been a problem—and the fact that he kept slipping her new tea throughout the day had managed to keep her spirits up and her self awake.

In fact, she was probably awake right now only because most of the tea had been caffeinated.

On an impulse, she pulled out her phone and texted him.

Nice work today

She decided that felt too much like she was something like his boss—god forbid she should ever be Michael, nice as he might be sometimes—and tacked on another message.

Nice ass too

Was that too forward? No, they were dating, it was fine, she told herself.

Oh God. Was it too Michael? Had that actually separated her from him at all?

She didn’t want the answer to that question.

Thanks for the tea

Ugh, that was so lame. So lame. But it was also...probably not something Michael would text? So that was probably a bonus?

Thankfully for her insane and crippling bout of self-doubt, Jim apparently had his phone on him.

Thanks Beesly

She smiled down at the phone. What was it about Jim calling her by her last name that made her so happy? She almost didn’t want to know, out of fear that it would evaporate or somehow curdle with knowledge. But whatever it was, she appreciated it in the moment—and her therapist did always tell her to live in the moment.

How’s it hanging?

Seriously, you said you were hanging pictures, I need an update

Her smile at the phone turned into a full-fledged grin. He was so dorky and he was all hers. It was a pretty good feeling.

She shot a couple photos of the art she had managed to get up. It was all stuff from her younger days, still—she wasn’t up to new watercolors or oils yet, but there was at least some stuff from before Roy that she hadn’t put up before because he hadn’t liked it. Mostly Rothko-style big blocky colors, because he’d never seen the point in them, even though she was proud of the work she had done to get them just right. One of them looked like sunrise over the water to her, even though it was just big splotches of red and blue and yellow, and she had put it right at the foot of her bed so she could look at it every morning.

That was the one she sent to Jim.

Sweet

She was deeply afraid for a moment that that was all she’d get from him—like when Roy had told her her art was the prettiest of all the arts and thought that was a good enough compliment to get him laid—and almost put the phone down before it buzzed in her hand again.

Tell me, did you steal that Rothko from MOMA on your last trip to NYC?

Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone

As long as you tell me how you did it

And let me in on the next heist. Gotta stick it to the man, you know. Art belongs to the people!

Seriously, it’s good

She let her breath out in a whoosh. He was a serial texter, and a goof but at least he wasn’t a complete Roy. And after all, he was her goof.