It took Pam a lot less time than she’d expected it to to get a piece of art that she and Michael agreed about up on the wall of The Comedy Roasters. In fact, it actually took more time for them to agree on a price for that piece of artwork, because Michael insisted on paying her more than she believed it was worth. In fact, his initial offer was so high that she speculated out loud when she finally got lunch with Katy that he was spending more on one piece of art than she’d spent at his coffeeshop the entire time she’d been going there—even though she’d been meticulous about not letting Jim comp her too many drinks now that they were dating.

“So?” Katy raised an immaculate eyebrow (seriously, Pam thought, it was like she had an entire wardrobe and makeup department for a TV show putting her together in the morning) and then jammed her whole deep-fried burger into her face.

Pam knew that she was right. She and Katy had started meeting up for lunches at the aptly named Coney Island Lunch, first because Katy had (to Pam’s surprise) suggested it, and then because it had quickly become tradition. So she knew by now that Katy’s view of the art business was very direct: take what people would pay you for your art—in her case, handbags, in Pam’s, painting—add 10% for the fact that they didn’t really understand what you were doing, add another 10% because the buyers were trying to get themselves what they thought was a good deal and you should negotiate, and go from there.

Pam rather admired her for it, but was constitutionally incapable of doing so herself. But it was nice to have someone else in her corner about this.

“So I feel bad taking advantage of him!” She distracted herself temporarily in her own meal—a Texas Weiner, which she had literally never been brave enough to order when she came here with Roy back in the day for fear of merciless jokes—and only stopped when she noticed her dining companion had stayed silent. “Say it.” She shoved the basket of fries over towards Katy. “You know you want to.”

“That’s his decision to make.” This was Katy’s guiding light, her principle of action, her cogito ergo sum. Someone could not buy her handbags. Someone could buy her handbags at the price she set. That was their decision to make; she was not going to feel bad about it. She had been gently encouraging Pam to do the same—or sometimes, as now, not so gently. She bit into a steaming fry aggressively. “Seriously, didn’t your boyfriend say something about a windfall or a lottery or something? He’s got more money than Jesus, let him spend it on you instead of those godawful Fatheads or whatever they are on the wall.”

She held up a hand. “And before you say anything, I’m aware that Jesus had very little money, thank you.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t go to two years of Bible camp without at least reading a Bible.”

Pam grinned. She hadn’t been going to say anything about Jesus’s poverty, but she did have to admit that she’d been thinking about it. Maybe her boyfriend’s Marxist obsession with class had rubbed off on her just a tiny bit. “Only two years of Bible camp?” She made a quizzical face. “How did you get out of the rest of them?” She knew Katy had had a strongly Baptist background growing up—they’d gotten drinks last week and Katy hadn’t been able to resist telling the joke about how you keep a Baptist from drinking all your liquor on a fishing trip—and fairly strict parents.

“Cheer camp.” Katy winked. “The only thing more important than church on Sundays was football on Fridays.”

Pam nodded, thinking about her own high school experience dating Roy. “True enough.”

Katy pushed the fry basket back across the table. “But how did we start talking about me? Take the money, Pam.” She rolled her eyes and Pam finally had to admit to herself that her friend—her new friend!—was right

And so Pam did.

Actually, she couldn’t resist trying to negotiate at least a little with Michael. It really did feel like taking candy from a baby, accepting that much money for her art.

But when he misunderstood her “I’m not sure about the price” as a demand for more and doubled his offer, she stopped trying.

Sometimes you just had to accept good fortune, as she told Jim that night over text.

All the time, Beesly, he wrote back.

And don’t forget, you deserve it.