Like all truly horrible events in one’s life, it happened in a matter of seconds.

First, there was denial.

No, this isn’t—this can’t be happening. It’s just a dream—a nightmare. I’ll wake up and realize that none of this is real.

Then anger.

God, what did I do to deserve this? I pay my taxes, tip well, and always return my grocery cart to the proper place. So what the hell kind of system of retribution is the universe operating under these days?

Bargaining inevitably followed.

I swear, if you just stop doing… you know, what you’re doing, I’ll give you anything. I’ll never wear another pair of underwear that isn’t 100% cotton. I’ll drink cranberry juice even though it gives me that icky feeling in the back of my throat. I’ll finally order something from that catalog I hid behind the fabric softener. God, anything, just please stop…

When the depression hit, the whole office heard Pam’s head thud against her desk.

It’s no use. It’s here and there’s nothing I can do about it. Why, why did I have to wear a beige skirt today of all days?

She was waiting for the calm resignation to kick in when she heard him clear his throat somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear. She realized absently that he must be leaning in to avoid the cameras.

“Uh…Pam?”

She didn’t answer.

“Are…are you alright? ‘Cause—I don’t know if you noticed—your head kinda hit the desk there a little bit.”

She turned her head to the side and peered up at him through one eye. His face was all squishy with concern. Crap, she thought.

“Head got too heavy,” she croaked. “Better now. Go away.”

He grinned at her with that look of sort of baffled awe in his eyes that usually made an appearance when she was being completely insane. Most days, it made her want to ruffle his hair. Today, it made her want to hide under her desk. Holy crap, she thought.

“Wait, I’m sorry—your head got too heavy? Does that happen often? Have you spoken to a doctor about this?” He schooled his features into an expression of grave concern. “Should I ask Dwight to examine you?”

She sat up suddenly, and nearly smacked their heads together. “No, I’m fine. My head’s fine. Bad game of solitaire.” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

Jim’s grin shrank to a smirk and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah, I don’t think I believe you.”

She gave him her best Bambi, hoping the batting eyelashes would distract him. “Come on, would I lie to you?”

He put a finger to his lips and pretended to ponder that for a moment, then answered, “Yes.”

“Who me?” she gasped.

“Yes, you.”

“Couldn’t be.”

“Then who?”

“Kevin,” they answered in unison, and when he chuckled and grinned goofily at her she let herself grin right back. She thought about yelling “Jinx!” and demanding he buy her a tampon from the dispenser in the ladies’ instead of a Coke. Because it’s Jim, she reminded herself and felt her smile grow, and Jim could make the apocalypse fun. Why didn’t I just think of that in the first place? Jim makes everything okay.

And then it hit her—the absolute worst thing about this already wretchedly humiliating situation.

She couldn’t tell Jim.

Yes, without a doubt he was the best friend she’d ever had, and, yes, she felt closer to him than anyone else she’d ever known (except Roy, of course, she added quickly) but she couldn’t, just couldn’t tell him this.

She looked into his eyes, wanting desperately to confide in him, and was completely unable to do so—not because he was a boy (man, an insolent part of her brain corrected her), but because this definitely fell under the heading of Things About Which Jim and Pam Do Not Speak.

She’d never really thought about it before, but there was a list of topics that were absolutely verboten when it came to the guy to whom she told nearly everything—a short list, yes, but it might as well be set in stone. These topics were:

1) Jim having sex with anyone other than someone’s mom;

2) Pam having sex with anyone at all;

3) Their Genitalia, and the Functions Thereof.

A surprise visit from Auntie Flow in the middle of the workday certainly qualified as a prime example of Forbidden Topic Number Three—and thus, Pam was screwed.

Which, of course, violated the prohibition on Topic Number Two.

Crap, crap, crap.

“Pam?” He was still staring at her, and he was no longer smiling. “Seriously, are you okay?”

No, she thought, no, I’m not okay, because, you see, it just occurred to me that you and I have the emotional maturity of 10th graders, and despite the fact that our friendship is pretty much the only reason I get out of bed in the morning, I simply cannot tell you about the discarded uterine lining about to seep through my skirt and stain the upholstery of my chair.

“Peachy,” she squeaked.

The concern didn’t leave his face, but he leaned forward again and pretended to examine her closely. “See, that’s funny, ‘cause you look like you’re about to hurl.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, it’s a good look on you, actually.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” he insisted. “You should be nauseated more often. That tinge of green in your face really brings out your eyes.”

“I’m fine, Jim. Really,” she insisted at his skeptical expression. Then the phone rang and she was saved. Maybe her relief was a little too obvious, though, because he continued to eye her suspiciously as he returned to his desk.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

I need a plan. If I get a plan, I can handle this, no problem. I just need to get myself to the bathroom and back without anyone noticing my…dilemma. No problem.

Of course, I’ll also need a new skirt.

“One moment, please. I’ll transfer you.”

Dammit. I have a creative mind; I suck at strategic thinking. Jim always—

No. No Jim. I can do this by myself.

Then the cramps hit, and she decided it was about damn time for her to start acting her age. She opened her e-mail and clicked on Compose.

*

To: halpertj@dundermifflin.com

From: beeslyp@dundermifflin.com

Subject: Your mission, should you choose to accept it…

Agent Halpert,

A dangerous new threat to office security has arisen, and your services are needed. Some would perhaps call this a “suicide” mission—whatever you call it, there is certainly no guarantee that you will survive its challenges intact.

If you are willing to risk life, limb, and sanity to protect the wonder that is Dunder Mifflin, Scranton, tug twice on your right earlobe and hum the tune of Madonna’s Like a Virgin until Angela gives you the Look of Death.

Once you have accepted, more information will be sent to you.

This message will not self-destruct, because that would probably set your computer on fire.

Pam

P.S. I kinda have a huge, really embarrassing favor to ask you. How do you feel about cutting out of work a little early?

*

Jim, as it turned out, knew nearly all the words to Like a Virgin. Pam was a little concerned that Angela might pop a blood vessel in her eye.

She was supposed to send him another e-mail, but she didn’t know what to say. Hey buddy, I’m on the rag. Help a girl out?

That sounded…no. That was not the sort of thing she could write to Jim. And she was back to the Forbidden Topic immaturity again.

Her computer pinged.

halpertj: Beesly? Or should I say, M?

It was Jim, of course, on that office IM system Michael had installed a few years ago that they almost never used. Well, she thought, it’s still better than trying to explain in person.

beeslyp: Agent Double 0 Jelly Bean.

He snorted, loudly, and gave her a look.

halpertj: Ridiculous.

beeslyp: You ain’t heard nothing yet.

halpertj: The suspense is killing me here, Beesly. What crazy scheme have you cooked up now, you minx?

beeslyp: I don’t mean to be mysterious…

halpertj: Ha!

beeslyp: It’s just kinda awkward. And personal.

There was a long pause, and when she glanced up from the computer screen he was still staring intently at her message, with a strange, unreadable expression.

halpertj: Pam, what’s going on?

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and typed quickly.

beeslyp: I got my period unexpectedly and my skirt is ruined and if I get up someone will see and Michael will NEVER stop talking about it.

She hit enter.

His reaction was a mixture of things—shock, amusement, concern. And it was entirely possible that he was blushing slightly. But as she watched, amusement began win out over his other emotions. The right side of his mouth began to curl up in such a way—

beeslyp: Don’t you dare laugh.

halpertj: Oh, Pam. I would never.

He was laughing.

It took every ounce of control she had not to join in.

beeslyp: Shut up!

halpertj: I’m sorry, it’s just…I can just imagine Dwight’s face…

beeslyp: I hate you.

halpertj: We could convince him that you were dying of some terrible contagious disease, and that soon everyone in the office would be infected…

She couldn’t help it. She snickered.

beeslyp: You know, Halpert, my menstrual cycle is not here for your amusement.

She regretted the message the moment she sent it. Because, perfectly innocent as it was, once she imagined Jim reading it, it sounded like it was about sex. Sex with Jim.

Her, having sex with Jim.

Forget Angela—one of her blood vessels was about to explode.

halpertj: So we need a plan, then. Your skirt’s a lost cause?

beeslyp: Pretty much, yeah.

halpertj: Other than that, you have the…necessary supplies in your purse?

beeslyp: Yeah, but how I am supposed to get to the bathroom without anyone noticing?

halpertj: You didn’t bring a coat in today, did you?

beeslyp: It’s 90 degrees outside.

halpertj: So no, then.

He had a look of such incredible concentration that Pam imagined she could actually see his mind working—colorful, well-oiled cogs spinning in tandem, gears and levers—

halpertj: I’ve got it.

beeslyp: I knew you would.

He grinned at her.

halpertj: Such faith. Now, I’m familiar with your great skill as an actor—how’s your fake 24 hour flu?

Well, she thought, this should be interesting.

TBC