AN: The song “Eyes” by Rogue Wave is a fantastic song indicative of the Jim/Pam relationship. The story is based upon it. You can listen to it online here. http://www.myspace.com/roguewave

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. ___________________________________________________________________

She picks up her pencil, balancing it delicately between her fingers, the radio echoing Carol of the Bells throughout the tiny apartment. She is sitting on her windowsill, right on top of the heater, as the snow blows and whistles outside and she can almost hear the white flecks hiss when they collide with the glass. She closes her eyes.

“Take a deep breath. Look inside yourself and I want you to draw what you see. I don’t want you to draw what you know. I want you to see it. Keep your eyes closed and see it, feel it, breathe it…

Draw me your heart.”

Art classes.

She’s been attending them weekly for the past few months, trying to figure things out. The only problem is, she can’t get the exercise right. It’s not that she’s doing it wrong, it’s that her teacher doesn’t believe that she’s actually seeing what she draws, that his face is perfectly engrained, down to the last eye wrinkle. That she can’t seem to draw anything else. That she doesn’t see anything else.

“You need to draw me the image, and show me the feeling. Pam, I want to look at this sketch and know everything that comes with it. I don’t want you to project the image. I don’t want to see something fake. I want to see what he is to you when I look at it.

Take it home. Try again.”

So she does. For months. She has a special sketch book reserved especially for the occasion. But it’s all there, every last freckle, every smiling wrinkle, every indent. It’s always the same pose- he’s sitting at his chair at his desk, looking down at his fingers, eyelashes fluttering. You can just see the sides of his pupils and she can tell he’s isn’t thinking about his next office prank. This is a different kind of sparkle.

Like clockwork, the images ingrains itself and won’t move, and the pencil flutters across the page, dancing over the paper in long lines, waltzing with the neutral space. The place where they can be together.

“This can’t be the only thing in your heart. Is it your husband?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“You must feel empty.”

She struggles with the fingers, always crumpled nervously in his lap, clenching almost infamously. Lips slightly upturned, soft lips that are relaxed and welcoming and ready. She isn’t.

The pencil slips between her fingers and clatters to the floor. She leaves it, staring at the paper. Always the same. She’s tempted to lie, to tell her teacher that she found something that night, that it was different, and she could sketch her favourite candy bar or her mother, and she’d be lying, but at least she wouldn’t have to look at him, watch him.

But she’s finished lying to herself. She’s wasted too much time lying. She isn’t supposed to be holding back anymore.

“I’m surprised you’ve kept this up. A lesser student would have given up by now.”

“I’m not here to hide from myself.”

“I never asked you too, but I asked you to paint what you see, in your heart. I don’t think, in your heart, you see this man in pain, alone, trying to hide behind a goofy smile. You can draw what you see and you can draw your feelings. I want to see more of you in this image. You belong there too.”

She knows what to do.

A week later she’s standing by the same window sill, her own, the pathetic faux Christmas tree she picked up on sale outside the grocery store leaning against the wall by the window. Standing in front of the easel, she takes a deep breath and picks up a fresh piece of charcoal, the buttery paper she bought on her lunch break pinned to the easel in front of her. Her fingers flutter for a moment and she closes her eyes, the image rising from the depths, lying stagnant across her mind.

She pictures him moving, looking around the office. His pose doesn’t change, but his gaze does. He’s staring at her.

It’s like jumping into a lake in the middle of January and she emerges from herself gasping, like her lungs have been frozen. There’s so much in those eyes. There’s pain, a bit of embarrassment and hurt. Then there’s something else, something deeper.

She raises her hand to the page and releases.

The charcoal moves in rapid succession, the muscles remembering this image so many times, the bend of the knee, the hands twisted in his lap, the wrinkled forehead. But this time the eyes face her.

And the eyes speak for her.

When she emerges from the picture she can’t break eye contact with the man staring at her. She sees more now than she ever has, an intense longing so potent she didn’t know how she could have ever ignored it, pushed it aside. How she could have pushed it aside for Roy.

It’s all there, on the page and she doesn’t know where to go from there. So she unclips the paper, tacks it to the wall, pulls out a fresh piece of paper and closes her eyes. The charcoal in her hand trembling with anticipation and she delves into the image ready to understand.