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You’re not sure how you ended up on the floor under Pam’s desk, but you know you like being there, especially because she’s under there too and she keeps bumping into you, first her elbow, then her shoulder, then her knee. Maybe you’re sitting a little close but there are two of you under the desk and you have to keep reaching over to stifle her giggles. Dwight has been searching the building since the end of the office day – he knows who’s been sending him messages from the CIA and the look on his face would have been frightening if it hadn’t been so hysterical. You’re almost shocked that he didn’t think to check Pam’s desk first – you’ll be sure you rub that in his face for a few months when he eventually finds the two of you, which you assume he will. He’s a pretty thorough guy, Dwight.

“I’m almost scared,” Pam whispers to you, her eyes bright in the dim light.

“Me too,” you agree solemnly. “Terrified, in fact.”

She smiles, and you remember what things used to be like. Aside from the fact that you’re close together under her desk, hiding from Dwight and acting like things are normal, everything’s a little… different. There’s this chasm between you. It’s not Karen and it’s not Roy; it’s something like being too cautious for too long and all that lost, wasted time. It’s loneliness and wishful thinking and making the wrong decisions at the wrong times, and sometimes there’s this ache in your chest like a water balloon is slowly leaking, filling you and filling you until you’re not sure it’s possible to be any more full with this empty, hollow feeling. It’s like you’re expanding with nothing. You know that doesn’t make sense but you’re not great with words or apparently with actions and when did everything get so complicated?

Pam is looking at you now with a concerned expression on her face and you realize it’s because the smile has slid off your face like an egg off a plate. You tug the corner of your mouth up and hope she doesn’t look at your eyes because she can always tell when you’re lying (or at least you hope so because that would make you feel like maybe this wasn’t all just some ridiculous charade, some game of pretend). You think about how they say it’s easier to smile because it takes more muscles to frown or something like that, and you try to ignore the way gravity is pulling on you. It’s harder to hold something up than let it fall: that makes more sense to you.

She’s not convinced. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

You love her voice. You know it’s stupid and there is so much about her that is better, like her hair and her smile and a million other things, but her voice is something you missed more than anything while you were away. The soft sound of it coming through in her laugh, the way you felt it vibrate through her back when you stood too near her (the way you always did, the way you always want to and always will). It is light and feminine and damn, you don’t know why but you love it and you missed it and it sounds so good in your ear, her arm pressed against yours from shoulder to wrist.

“Nothing,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?” she says. Her eyes are beginning to look wary, like you’re going to jump up and out from under the desk at any second, destroy any semblance of this game you’re playing. She wants to act like things are normal and you’re playing along, you’ve been acting your part, but it’s harder when you can feel her breath against your neck and smell her apple shampoo.

You glance at her and immediately regret it. She’s worried. You shake your head again. “Nothing,” you tell her. “It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me,” she says, and it doesn’t feel like prying because it’s Pam and if anyone can ask, it’s always been her (who else really cared?). You've got Karen now but her voice is lower and her hair is darker and she is in no way and every way like Pam: sometimes it just hurts too much.

You don’t answer. Her ankles are bare today because she’s wearing a skirt and some sandals. It’s a new skirt – you noticed because you always notice, even when you try not to. You can see a small cut on her right ankle, the one closest to you, where she must have nicked herself shaving. You wish you wouldn’t, but you’re not really listening to yourself and you reach out with your hand to touch it, running your thumb against the scratch. You hear her breathe in sharply. “Jim,” she whispers. You still won’t (can’t) answer and you still won’t (can’t) stop. Before you realize it your fingers are wrapped around her ankle. Her skin is cold, but then your hand is warm and there’s that whole thing about women and cold feet and you know it’s weird but there’s something about that that you love. It’s quiet for a minute and then you hear sharp, jerky breaths coming from your left and you finally look up at her face again.

She has blotches of red and pink on her cheeks and there are tears in her eyes. She won’t look at you and you feel a sinking in your chest and your hand still, still won’t let go. You don’t know what else to do and you’re not really in control of your hand anyway, so you slowly rub up and down the inside of her calf, your thumb stroking over the impossibly soft skin in the crook of her knee.

“Hey,” you say. You want to tell her you’re sorry but your hand is still against her bare skin and if you were really sorry you’d keep your hands to yourself. You want to tell her it’s okay but you don’t know that it is and sometimes okay isn’t what anyone wants (because how is it ever enough?). You want to tell her that you love her but you’re not sure that the feeling hasn’t curdled or at least become something else – you know you don’t love Karen because what you feel for her isn’t what you felt for Pam, but whatever it is you feel for Pam now isn’t what it used to be either and how is that any better? You settle for another stroke of your thumb and she sniffles, wiping at her eyes.

You look at her and she looks at you and she’s kissing you before you even know that it’s happening. Her lips are soft and her cheeks are wet against yours and suddenly she’s in your lap, her skirt hitched up above her knees and her head bent at an awkward angle to avoid the desk, to keep her mouth locked to yours. You think about how she tastes like the tea she drank at work today and how Karen is coming over later to have dinner with you; you think about the friction of your pants and the way your hands have found their way to her hips. This is not the place and not the time and not the way any of this should have happened but you push against her with your hips and your mouth and she gasps, her hands tensing on your shoulders and chest.

“Jim,” she breathes into your mouth, and you both jump and hit your heads against the bottom of the desk when the door to the office slams open.

“I know you’re in here!” Dwight shouts, and now Pam’s rolling away from you, pushing her skirt down and wiping her face. She looks at you for a few seconds, swallows hard, and gets out from under the desk.

“We’re here, Dwight,” she says quietly, gathering her coat and purse. You don’t have to see it to know that Dwight has whipped around so quickly that his glasses slide down; you don’t even have to use your imagination to picture the look of triumph on his face.

“Ah ha!” he says. You can hear him walking over probably as quickly as he can without running. “As volunteer sheriff it is within my rights to put you both under arrest—”

“Dwight,” she says, “I’m going home.”

She’s never sounded so tired.

You’ve never known yourself less.