It seemed like 2007 had just arrived, and yet it was already the third week in January. The holidays were but a memory, and each day the weather brought nothing but cold and grey. It didn't even have the decency to snow and cover the ground in a romantic white dusting. It was just another in a string of grey days working in the grey building where Dunder Mifflin called home in Scranton.

Even so, Pam was feeling better than she probably had a right to, but it couldn't be helped. She discovered right before Christmas that Jim and Karen really weren't an item anymore, and what's more, she heard it right from the horse's mouth: Karen. Pam and Karen had been in the middle of planning their alternate Christmas party and Karen had started reminiscing about past holiday parties in Stamford. Pam, who couldn't help but like Karen despite her role in Jim's life, suggested that this year must be nice since she had someone special to share it with. Karen shook her head, and said she wasn't with anyone. Pam's surprise caused her to blurt out “But I thought you and Jim....” to which Karen smiled wryly.

“Yeah, we went out for a while after we first transferred, but it just sort of fizzled out,” she said. “He never admitted it, but I'm pretty sure he was hung up on someone else. Probably still is.”

That confession had lifted Pam's hopes and confidence so high that when the Christmas Party they'd planned did roll around, she dressed up extra special and wore a smile just for Jim. He initially seemed taken aback by her attentions that night, but as the festive mood bloomed and the beer flowed, he warmed back up into the man she'd originally fallen in love with. She even managed to clumsily maneuver Jim under the mistletoe when he wasn't looking, only to point up to it innocently. Pam still felt a rush when she remembered the look he had given her, looking up at the mistletoe and then back down at her. Their lips had only just touched when Kevin accidentally bumped into them, disturbing the magic.
The following work day neither of them made mention of their kiss, but it was clear some good had come of it. It was if the green light had been given and they both fell back into their old camaraderie, though there certainly was an electricity between them she'd never noticed before. Jokes between them held more nuance, double entendres dropped more frequently, as each slowly danced around the other, trying to figure out what was going on. Words could have made the whole interaction so much easier, but there was a level of excitement in still not being quite sure where they stood with each other.

On New Year's Eve he invited her along to a friend's house and the only people she knew there were Jim and his old roommate Mark. But she had a wonderful time, and if he only introduced her as 'his friend Pam', the looks they gave each other were anything but platonic. Jim and Pam stayed within arm's reach of each other the whole night and when the crystal ball dropped in Times Square, they shared a brief, awkward, closed mouth kiss. The tension between them was palpable, their heads remaining close together for moments after, neither willing to break away, but still too unsure to do more. About an half-hour afterwards they stepped outside, both agreeing the room had gotten too warm. Standing outside in the cold, Jim kissed her again, this time with no pretenses of friendship. Pam often wondered what might have happened had Mark not ended up drinking too much ouzo and needing Jim to take care of him.

So when the letter arrived in the mail from the art school, she ran to the first person in the world she wanted to share it with. He hadn't even taken off his coat when she jumped up and greeted him at the door the next morning.

“Guess what?” she said, practically bouncing.

“What?” He laughed, already taken in by her enthusiasm.

“They're having the quarterly art show this Friday. Guess who's been chosen as one of the display artists?”

He smiled as he hung his coat up. “I have absolutely no idea,” he lied.

She held out the letter to him. “Me!”

He didn't even bother to look at the letter. Instead he picked her up in a bear hug and spun her a half-twirl through the air. “That's outstanding, Beesly.” He then took the paper from her hand and read it.

He looked up from the letter. “Can I go see it?”

She was surprised. “You really want to?”

“Yeah, I really want to. Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know. I just hadn't thought about it.”

“Just let me know where and when.” He started to walk toward his desk, then stopped and turned back. “And I expect to be impressed.”

When Friday arrived, she reminded him several times during the day where the show was, what time to meet, where to park, and where she'd be meeting him. He laughed at her nervousness and promised her over and over that he'd be there.

At 7pm she waited near the gallery entrance, trying to look relaxed. She worried he wouldn't show up. She worried he would. She caught her reflection in the glass of the door. She wore a black leather skirt much shorter than she'd ever dare to wear to work. A pink cashmere turtleneck, black knee length boots and black tights completed the outfit. She bought the whole outfit on an expensive whim, to present herself tonight like hip New York artist. She'd felt incredibly sexy when she put the outfit on at home. Now she just hoped she didn't look silly.

She saw Jim walk in. She noticed he had changed from his work clothes into a sweater and jeans, both of which she thought suited him to perfection. She resisted the urge to run over to him, and instead smiled and waited for him to come to her. She watched his expression change as he took her appearance in. By the time he was near her she was very glad she'd taken such a risk with her wardrobe.

“Wow,” he said, unable to resist touching her shoulder to feel her sweater. “Pam, you look incredible.”

“Thanks,” she said, still a bit self-conscious. “You're looking pretty nice yourself.”

They stood grinning at each other, each unsure what to do next. “Oh, let's get you a program,” she said. He followed her over to the guest service table, where he presented his ticket and was given a guide to the exhibition. They walked into the gallery, Jim leafing through the booklet.

“Where are yours?” he asked.

“Each room is a different medium,” she explained. I have one in charcoal, one in watercolor and one in oil.”

“Three? That's pretty impressive, Beesly. Does everyone have so many?”

“Some do, and some have way more. But I was surprised with how well I did,” she admitted.

“You shouldn't be,” he replied. “I'm not.”

“Thanks.”

They started off in sculptures, working their way through mosaics and mixed media. When they reached the brush and sketch areas, she led him first to her charcoal piece. It was a still life of sorts, a view of the front counter at a local Scranton coffeehouse.

“Spend a lot of time drinking coffee?” he joked.

“It was either that or start drinking,” she said. “I started it in August, so at the time I was working on it I was still trying to put my life together.”

Her comments were said without the slightest trace of bitterness, but Jim still felt their sting. He had spent so much time feeling like he was the only injured party from their May fallout that he hadn't fully appreciated what she might have been going through at the same time. He felt a swell of tenderness and pride, for both her and her accomplishments. Looking at her, he also couldn't help but think once more how beautiful she looked.

“I like it,” he finally managed to say. It wasn't want he wanted to say, but he wasn't sure he had the words to articulate all the thoughts running through his mind right then. He felt like he was getting a glimpse of the woman he had long suspected lived inside of Pam, but had made far too few appearances. He was thankful that she had been brave enough to share this with him.

Pam was pleased with his approval of her work. They continued their tour of the display, pausing occasionally to reflect or comment on other works. Their interaction was warm and easy, and their laughter frequent.

“Watercolors are next,” she said, walking ahead of him. When she noticed he wasn't following her, she stopped and walked back to him. “Come on, Slowpoke,” she teased, taking his hand, “it's this way.”

She had grabbed his hand playfully, as a means to drag him along with her. But when he interwove his fingers with hers and didn't let go even when they'd reached the next gallery, she felt her heart skip a few beats, and suddenly she was more aware of him standing near. His hand was warm, and felt strong. She briefly wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on her body, and she remembered the few moments they shared on New Year's. She had to brush those thoughts away or she knew she wouldn't get through the rest of the show without embarrassing herself. But she certainly wasn't complaining. So far the night was progressing even better than she dared dream.

They continued to hold hands as she pointed out some of the works of her friends, and came to a stop at her next exhibit. Like many of the other pieces, she had chosen flowers for the object of her expression. However, that's where the comparison stopped. Other student works seemed to have been inspired by the delicate bluesy greens of a great deal of Monet's work. Pam's flowers seemed influenced more by Warhol meets Lichtenstein, with a bright mix of oranges and reds and purples, and the flowers shaped with more of a cartoonish bend than a realistic one.

“Wow,” Jim said. “This one sure stands out from the rest of them.”

“Yeah, that was kind of the point. Most people don't think 'bold' when they think of watercolors.”

“Kind of like you then.”

Pam looked up, taken aback by his comment. “What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it,” he continued, smiling. “This is kind of like Fancy New Beesly. A new take on something traditional.”

She smiled. “So that's a good thing?”

“Definitely. I really like this one, too.”

He was still holding her hand when they came to the section she had purposely saved for last. In the next room was her biggest, most personal project, and she felt her anxiety return full force.

“Listen,” she said, “I'm going to run to the restroom, but you go on in. I'll be back in a minute.”

She turned and walked away before he could even form a reply. In the ladies' bathroom she told herself how well the evening was going and tried to stay relaxed.
She checked then rechecked her hair and makeup. She cursed herself for ever inviting Jim to come tonight, and then cursed herself for being so cowardly. She finally realized that she could stall no more. She walked back out to face the music.

She found him right where she hoped he'd be. She kept her distance, trying to gauge his reaction to her painting. It was her first major work in oils, and it had taken her most of the semester to get it right. The title card next to it read:

Exhibit 57
Oil on Canvas
Reflection
Pamela Beesly

She watched him study the painting, trying to imagine it through his eyes. It featured a woman looking into an ornate gold framed oval mirror. The woman faced the mirror, with only her back to be seen. She had shoulder length curly hair, the top layers pulled back in a simple tortoise shell rectangular barrette. She wore a grey cardigan, the cuffs of the blue striped shirt underneath visible and pushed halfway up her forearm. Her right hand touched the edge of the mirror.

Looking back was not her reflection, but a man's. A man with unruly brown hair that hung in his eyes in some places and curled around his neck in others. His features were imperfect, but not because of the artist's hand: a slightly bulbous asymmetrical nose, ears that stuck out despite the longer hair, bushy brows over eyes speckled green and brown. There was a slight twist of a smile on his lips, and a warmth in his eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue sweater, a white dress shirt evident at his collar and sleeves, which were pushed up his forearms like hers. His left hand reached out to her right hand, the tips of his long fingers seeming to touch hers.

She walked slowly and silently to stand a few steps behind him. Jim had his arms crossed across his chest, the exhibition brochure clutched in his hand.

“Do you like it?” she finally asked, unable to bear the anticipation any longer.

Jim continued to gaze silently at the portrait for so long that Pam wondered if he had even heard her. She was about to repeat the question when he spoke.

“I don't really know what to say,” he said, finally turning his attention to her. “What made you paint this?”

Pam's nervousness was peaking. She couldn't tell from his reaction if he liked it or not. “It's my life, can't you tell?” she replied, looking at her artwork instead of at him. “I see you in everything, Jim. Even when I look in the mirror, I can't escape you. It's like you're a part of me, a piece of my soul.” She spoke softly and slowly, as if it were painful to give words to feelings she'd managed to keep inside for so long. She closed her eyes and braced herself for his reaction.

“Look at me, Pam,” Jim said, moving closer. She felt his hand rest at the small of her back. When she did, she saw his eyes search hers. She heard his unasked question as clearly as if he'd said it aloud.

“Can't you see how much I'm in love with you?” she said quietly.

Jim face was serious. “I thought I saw it once a long time ago and you said I was wrong. I couldn't bear to make that assumption again.”

Jim's words hurt more than if he had physically struck her. She knew he had every right to walk away from her, and yet there he was. “I know,” she said, “and I was so very wrong. Believe me, I've suffered for it, too.”

The arm Jim had around her waist dropped down to take her hand again. There was more he wanted to say, more he wanted to do, but the number of people milling around them made this location all wrong. “Do you think we should find somewhere else to talk about this?” he asked, a faint smile reappearing.

“Yes, please,” she said simply.

He gave her painting one long final look, and they walked out the room arm-in-arm. They walked through the main lobby and were about to exit the building when Jim stopped and asked her to wait. Pam saw him walk over to the guest services counter, where he spoke to a silver haired woman for a few moments, and then wrote something on a piece of paper she gave him. The woman handed him another piece of paper, and he was folding it up when he met back up with Pam.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Taking care of some business,” he smiled, opening the door for her.

“What do you mean?”

“I asked her if the art was for sale.”

“I could have told you that. They had us price our artwork when we filled out the submission paperwork.”

“Yes, and let me just tell you for future reference that you should value your work at a much higher price than you do.”

She stopped and looked at him, and she could see he couldn't not resist smiling at her. “What did you do?” she asked again, realization dawning. “You bought the painting!” she squealed, her hands flying up to her face in disbelief.

“Of course. It is rather nice likeness of me, after all,” he said lightly. “I'm thinking of asking Michael if we can hang it in the conference room.”

“No, you're not!” She protested. She continued to stand and stare at him, and for as inane as it sounded, the only thought running through her mind was that he liked the portrait. He had really liked it. It meant everything to her that he had liked it. She surprised Jim by throwing her arms around him. “You're the best,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

He hugged her back, pleased but a bit overwhelmed by her exuberance. “Come on, Beesly, let's get out of here before you make an even bigger scene,” he joked.

When the reached Jim's car, Pam noticed Jim was staring at her.

“What?” She asked, feeling self-conscious. “Is there something wrong?”

He eyed her up and down in an exaggerated manner, crossing his arms over his chest and rubbing his chin with his right hand. “I just figured out what you're missing.”

“And that would be...?”

“A beret.”

“Shut up, Halpert!” Pam blushed, not used to being openly stared at by him.

“No, really,” he insisted. “That outfit is crying out for a beret, Beesly. I'm surprised you didn't think of it.”

“Just stop it,” she said, feeling embarrassed. She hung her head down so she didn't have to look at his teasing expression, and in doing so was surprised when he wrapped his arms around her. She looked back up and couldn't help but smile back at him. He was incorrigible, and he knew she was unable to resist him.

Jim was leaning back against his car, pulling her to him, as they stood there silently.

“So are you going to kiss me or what, Halpert?” she asked, trying to hide the shaking of her hands by running them under the lapel of his coat.

“I haven't decided,” he replied, linking his hands behind her back for the same reason. “As I recall the last two times we tried didn't exactly go as planned.”

She laughed. “Well, I don't see either Kevin or Mark anywhere around now.”

“Well then, maybe you should kiss me,” Jim replied.

So she did.

They spent the rest of the evening drinking coffee in Jim's kitchen, talking about all the big and little ways things had gone wrong and right between them. Confessions were punctuated by kisses, absolutions emphasized with embraces, and tears appeared in both Pam and Jim's eyes many times throughout it all. It was well into early Saturday when they noticed the time, and by then a true mending of their relationship had begun.

Jim offered to drive Pam to her car, to follow her safely back to her apartment. They even got as far as putting on their coats and walking toward the door. But the passion between them was heavy and tangible, and when Jim reached for the door knob, Pam reached for Jim. He turned around, and she shook her head no. She was not ready to walk out that door. That was all it took for them to reach out to each other, to finally come together in an precious entanglement of hands and fingers, mouths and tongues, words and sighs and incredible love. The expensive New York artist outfit fell in pieces along the path from the door to his bed, matched by a dark blue sweater, a white dress shirt and jeans. That night was the official start of their love affair, though it could be argued that it really had been on-going for years. They didn't leave his apartment to pick up her car until late Sunday afternoon.

When Pam came into work on Monday, she had a smile on her face, memories of the weekend still fresh in her mind. Jim was already in the office, bent over his desk working. She laughed out loud as she approached her desk. Sitting on her keyboard was a black wool beret.