Pam doesn't notice when the sixth round of drinks arrive, and nearly knocks over the fresh crantini at her elbow. Ryan raises his eyebrows at her. "Take it easy," he murmurs, with a friendly smile, but she forgets it immediately and gulps down a third of the drink. The bartender has changed since she sat down. The last two glasses have been pungent with vermouth, which she can't stand, but it's too much trouble to remember to tell the waiter.

In the little booth in front of her sit Ryan, Kevin, Jim, Michael and Dwight, sipping beer, beer, beer, Black Label and some sort of Belgian raspberry import, respectively. "That looks like blood," she told Dwight when the first glass arrived.

"Don't be silly. Blood is much more viscous," he replied. Many glasses later, Dwight's speech itself has become viscous and slurred, eventually stopping completely. Now he is slumped forward a little in his seat beside her, with a pale pink ring around his lips and breath that is sickly sweet.

Michael is still working on his second drink, and has difficulty masking a slight shudder with every cautious sip, but his mood has noticeably improved. He smiles at them beatifically. "The old gang," he says, leaving his hand on Ryan and Jim's shoulders slightly longer than is absolutely necessary. "My compadres. Oh, and comadre, of course," he adds, raising a glass at Pam. "Speaking of which, where is Oscar tonight?"

"He had plans." Jim doesn't look up from his pint glass. "With Gil."

Michael nods over-vehemently. "As is completely natural and healthy." He looks around the booth. "And why are we all here? We're all in relationships now... except for Dwight, of course." From his corner, Dwight mumbles briefly and is silent. "Everyone just needs a night off from the old ball and chain now and then, am I right?"

There are a few half-hearted nods.

"You going to be sleeping on the couch tonight, Pam?" asks Michael. "For having a wild night out with a bunch of guys?"

She looks at him over the rim of her glass. His face is red and a little shiny. "No," she says slowly, "it's not like you're all strangers."

"And it isn't exactly wild," mutters Ryan into his beer.

"Not yet, not yet. Night's not over." Michael waves expansively at their waiter. "Another round for me and my friends! Just keep lining 'em up," he adds, as the man looks pointedly at Michael's nearly-full glass.

This time she can't really taste the vermouth.

-----

Later, Dwight snores peacefully, curled into the fetal position with his thumb not actually in his mouth, but dangerously close. Kevin has joined the crowd at the bar to watch the game.

For the last half hour, Michael has been attempting to draw them all into a game of Truth or... Truth, from what she can gather. She doesn't really understand the rules of the game, and she's pretty sure it's just a flimsy excuse for Michael to tell them all about places and ways that he and Jan have had sex, with wildly inappropriate amounts of graphic detail.

His next question is, predictably, "What is the most public place you guys have ever done it?" Without waiting for anyone to reply, he rushes on: "For me and Jan, it was a beach cabana in Jamaica. I thought the door was closed, but turns out it was open, by like, a foot and a half!" He digs Ryan a little in the ribs with his elbow. "Her knees: over my shoulders. Her feet: hooked through the towel rack."

Ryan has made an interesting transformation over the last half hour, from staring glassily at the wall to giggling helplessly at everything Michael says. At this fresh revelation, he doubles over and smacks the table with the flat of his hand, making their coasters jump. "Nice!" he snorts, giving a pleased Michael a messy high-five. "Good work, dude!"

"Top that!" Their boss looks around at them smugly.

"What counts as sex?" asks Jim. It is the first time he's spoken in a while.

Michael scoffs loudly, "Whad'ya mean, what counts as sex? Do I need to draw you a picture?"

This elicits a fresh burst of laughter from Ryan, who begins searching his jacket for a pen.

"Figure of speech, Ryan," says Michael, pushing it away with an impatient swipe.

"I mean, are we using the Clintonian definition here?" asks Jim. His words are coming very slowly and deliberately. Pam forgets how much he's had to drink, although she started out the evening by keeping track.

"Use any definition you like," says Pam. "We just want the dirt." Her ice cubes have melted so that there is a tiny hole through one of them. She slides it into her mouth and pokes her tongue through the hole, feeling the opening expand as the ice gives way.

"Then I guess... on the tennis court, at night, against a chain link fence." Jim glances openly at her for the first time that night. She can't tell what he's thinking.

"Was anyone playing tennis?" asks Michael, in an awed voice. Beside him, Ryan convulses.

Jim smiles languidly. "No. I'm not that crazy, I guess," he said. "Someone could have seen us, but I think probably no one did. It was pretty late."

Ryan shakes his head. "Weak," he says. "I got that beat. Airplane."

"Mile High Club, in the business class bathroom! We're like twins!" Michael slaps him on the shoulder, and this time, Ryan doesn't seem to notice.

"Not the bathroom, dude. In our seats." Ryan chuckles into his glass of beer, and refuses to elaborate,

Pam's mind races feverishly. Roy's car. Her bedroom. His parent's bedroom. A hotel room. Another hotel room. Another. She wonders if she should make something up. Something far enough in the past they might believe it of her -- the football field after a game, or something similar. She has a momentary vision of Michael making a joke of it to Roy, Roy looking confused, the slow realization that would creep over everyone that would be greater than the shame of the truth right now.

"I've got nothing. Sorry, guys," she says.

"Aww. Poor Pam. Poor Sister Mary Pamela," says Michael. "It's okay, Sister Pam, without couples like you and Roy, there would be no America." He clasps her hand over the tabletop, his sleeve in the nachos.

"Thank you, Michael," she says numbly, his obvious sincerity neutralizing the faint wave of irritation she feels. She looks at Jim, whose eyes are on the television several feet away. Her skull feels tight, like it is filled with air. "On the other hand," she says, raising her voice to make sure he hears her, "I'm not dead yet."

Michael snickers appreciatively. "You go, girl," he says, not for the first time that night.

Ryan's laugh is careless and a little patronizing. "Yeah, right. You and Roy are going to get nasty now."

She shrugs. "Maybe. We've spent nearly a decade together... mostly..." Jim looks at her quickly and then focuses on his drink. "We've got the foundation built. We're comfortable. Now we can take risks."

"Like maybe the floor of the bedroom once in a while?" Ryan giggles.

The anger she suppressed at Michael's teasing rises in her again. "I guess you're the expert, Ryan. How can I compete?" she says sarcastically.

"You know..." Michael raises a finger thoughtfully. "In ten years with Roy, Pam's probably had more sex than all of us combined. So that makes her the most experienced one here." He gives her a kindly smile, and she squirms a little in her seat.

"With the same guy, though," protests Ryan.

Jim clears his throat. "Yeah, so what, Ryan?" he asks.

There is a lull in the booth. An explosion of cheers and a few scattered groans drift from the group gathered around the wide-screen television.

Dwight has wedged himself as far back into the corner of the booth as possible, still curled into a tight ball. By degrees, Pam slides past him on the bench, a little closer to Jim and farther away from Ryan, who has spilled beer over most of his quarter of their table. Someone -- Pam thinks it was Michael -- has ordered a few rounds of shots that smell like nail polish remover.

"Pretty impressed with how well you're keeping up," Jim whispers to her, while Michael and Ryan flick droplets of beer at each other. "What's your secret?"

"You guys are lightweights compared to Roy and his friends," she replies, "but to tell you the truth, I can't feel my feet."

He glances down. "They're still attached to the ends of your legs," he says, "which leaves only two possibilities."

"Yes?"

"One: your knees are missing. Two: you're going to be paying for this tomorrow like you wouldn't believe."

She smiles. "Is it wrong that I don't care either way?"

-----

"You guys are awesome," says Michael, apropos of nothing. "Pam, you're the best receptionist Dunder-Mifflen has ever had."

"Thanks," she says.

"Remember that -- Jim, who was the one before Pam?" Michael snaps his fingers impatiently. "Brenda? Monique?"

"Susan, technically," says Jim. "But she was only around for a week and a half. Brenda was before her."

Michael's brow creases. "Susan? There was a Susan?"

"Kind of tall, light brown hair, training to be a dental assistant?"

"Not ringing any bells," says Michael.

Jim sighs. "Kind of... busty?" he says, in a resigned tone.

Michael's face clears. "Susan!" he crows. "Well, our Pam may have smaller breasts, but she has a bigger heart."

"Again, thanks," Pam says.

-----

Kevin returns, and Pam slides even closer to Jim to make room. Her vision swims a little every time she moves her head, so she keeps as still as possible. Michael is talking, and she realizes she hasn't been listening for several minutes.

"...the front of the neck, right at the bottom. That kind of divot thing. I don't know what it's called. This." Michael puts out a finger to touch the hollow at the base of Ryan's throat, above his loosened tie and open collar.

She half-expects Ryan to slap Michael's hand away, but instead he fixes Michael with a wolfish grin. The moment stretches awkwardly.

"On a woman, of course," finishes Michael, pulling away and taking a hasty gulp of his drink. "What about you, Soul Sista Pam? The Mel Gibson butt?"

"Shoulders," she replies reflexively. "I like nice shoulders."

Ryan nods sagely. "That's why she's with the quarterback."

Michael orders another round of shots. "I'm sure shoulders aren't the only things that turn our Pammie's crank," he says, when they arrive. "What else, Pam?"

She takes refuge in her glass. "New topic."

"Oh, c'mon," says Michael, splashing a little beer her way.

"Dude, give it up, she's not going to tell you anything juicy," says Ryan sourly. "Even liquored up, she's vanilla through and through."

She doesn't like his tone, or his condescension, or the way he keeps talking about her in the third person, or his stupid blue shirt and red tie, and is about to tell him so when Kevin announces gravely, "I like really, really big tits."

They dissolve into childish giggling, and her anger evaporates. She is aware of her own shoulder, lightly touching Jim's, and she leans into him a tiny bit more, to see if he notices. He doesn't seem to.

"There is something," she hears herself say. "And if I'm so vanilla, Ryan, you should have no problem guessing what it is."

Ryan's eyes narrow. "We're still talking body parts?"

She regards him evenly. "No. We've definitely strayed into the neighborhood of kink."

Michael chokes violently on his drink.

She notices, for the first time, that the music is much louder and the light far dimmer than when they sat down. Half of Ryan's thin face is in shadow, and Dwight is barely visible in his corner. The noise of the bar is like a comforting blanket, and Pam can't remember when she felt more relaxed and sure of herself.

Ryan gives her a long look. "You want me to guess?" he asks.

"You can try," she says. "I'll even tell you if you're warm." A muscle in Jim's shoulder jumps slightly; she can feel it through the two layers of fabric that separate them.

Michael wriggles in his seat. "Can I play too?" he asks.

"No one is allowed to help Ryan," says Pam sternly to the table at large. "He's so smart, he can figure it out himself. Michael, if you want to guess, whisper to Jim and he can whisper to me."

"Well, I don't know... bondage?" Ryan ventures lamely, after a moment of consideration.

"No."

"Some sort of role-playing?"

"No."

Against all of their expectations, Dwight chooses this moment to return to consciousness, and struggles into a cross-legged position, still crammed into the corner of the booth. "What're we talking 'bout?" he says, his right cheek creased from being pressed against the wooden bench.

"Ryan's trying to guess what Pam's sexual fetish is," explains Kevin, with obvious relish.

Dwight takes this information in his stride. "Do you like being treated like a household pet?" he asks Pam.

"Go back to sleep, Dwight," says Jim, as Pam laughs and shakes her head.

"Not tired," protests Dwight, but a few seconds later his chin is on his chest and his eyes are closed.

Michael leans into Jim and whispers excitedly. Jim's face is expressionless as he turns to Pam. "Michael's guess is 'fruits and veggies'," he says into her ear. "I have no idea what he means by that."

"No, Michael, sorry," says Pam.

Ryan starts destroying his coaster, his face thoughtful. "We've established it's not exhibitionism," he says carefully. "Is it related to drawing or something?"

Kevin shakes his head seriously. "You gotta be way more specific than that, fire guy," he says, his eyes nearly closed. "She said she'd tell you if you're warm." He drops Pam a slow wink, and she answers with a grateful smile.

Michael eagerly turns back to Jim, and speaks at length in barely hushed tones. Jim looks confused. "What?!" he asks, his eyebrows rising even further as Michael continues. "Okay, no, I get it." His lips move to an inch from her ear again. "Um, Michael seems to have a fundamental lack of understanding of basic human anatomy. Also, he's disgusting and I'm a little creeped out just sitting next to him," he says. "Just say, No."

"No," she says, adding wickedly, "but you may be on the right track, Michael."

"Jesus," Jim says softly.

There is another long pause, while Michael looks pleased with himself and Ryan stares into space. It occurs to Pam that Ryan has already played all his cards, which strikes her as sad, though a little endearing. "While Ryan's thinking," she says, "maybe we should hear more of Jim's tennis court story." She gives him a playful sidelong look.

Jim flushes slightly. "Uh, I don't think so," he says.

She hesitates momentarily, before taking the plunge. She leans toward him. "That was a hint," she breathes. She looks away quickly, but still registers his startled glance.

When she ventures to look back in his direction, Michael is whispering again. The description seems to be a lengthy one. Finally, Jim leans toward Pam. "Never mind what he says. What do you mean, that was a hint?" He pauses. "What part of it was a hint?"

"You want a hint about my hint?" she says softly.

"Okay, no. Was it... I mean, is it that you like to hear about other people's... experiences?"

Pam smiles. "Too specific and at the same time too general, Michael," she says.

"Maybe a torture scenario?" suggests Ryan, breaking his silence.

"No," says Pam.

"Yawn," says Michael, and whispers to Jim again as more drinks arrive.

Jim barely waits for Michael to finish talking before he is back at Pam's ear. "Just so we're clear: Michael guesses something insane and disturbing, which I ignore, I make a guess, and you answer me, framing it as an answer to him?"

"You are definitely onto something," she tells Michael.

Ryan looks annoyed. "This is boring," he mutters.

"I'm not bored," says Kevin, with a smirk.

Michael pats Ryan on the shoulder. "Don't be discouraged, Grasshopper. When you're my age... in six or seven years... you too may have broader horizons. You too may know the love of a strong-willed, merciless, passionate, and mature woman."

Ryan picks at the fragments of his coaster for a moment, then rallies a little. "Asphyxiation," he suggests, without much enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous. She's sitting here talking to us," says Michael, then whispers urgently to Jim.

Jim nods, and turns to Pam. "Was it something about me telling that story in particular?" he asks her quietly. "Um, related to tennis or fences?"

"Warm and then ice-cold, Michael," she replies, and gulps down her shot. Setting down the glass very deliberately, she slides her gaze to Jim's face, and counts silently. Five. Four. Three. Two...

As Michael opens his mouth to speak, Jim clears his throat. "I think I might've explained it wrong. One sec." He bends his head to hers again. His voice is so low, she can barely make out his words. "Not so much the story's details, then. You just want to hear me tell it?"

"Bulls-eye," says Pam.

"Well, fuck it, I give up," says Ryan, shrugging. "If he thought of it," he adds, with a flick of the head at Michael, "it can't be too out there."

Jim has been absolutely motionless for the past five seconds, but Ryan's words seem to break the spell. He grins. "Ryan, without giving anything away," he says, "I'm in a position to tell you that 'out there' does not go nearly far enough when it comes to describing this man's imagination." He shakes his head at Michael. "I'm in awe, my friend. I'm in shock and awe."

Michael holds up a deprecating hand. "You are too kind, Sir James," he says, and, buoyed by his success, flails his arm at their waiter again.

As their boss tries loudly (and unsuccessfully) to order a round of 'Coco Locos', Jim turns slowly back to Pam. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded. "This is crazy," he whispers. "You... you're not messing with me, are you?"

A part of her wants to nod and laugh at him, to make a grab for solid ground and pull herself out. But for once, that part of her is tired, and its voice seems very far away. "Not even a little bit."

Jim hesitates, and she knows before he speaks what his next words will be, "What about Roy?"

Pam's heart thuds once in her throat, and then her calm returns. She can feel the heat radiating from his skin as she leans close to whisper back, "Do you tell Karen everything?"

He pulls away from her slightly, so that he can look into her face. His expression is hard to read, but he shakes his head slowly. "No."

Michael gives up and settles on a pitcher of margaritas. "For all my little conquistadors!" he says, tousling Ryan's hair jovially. "Even Dwight. Is Dwight still here?"

Dwight stirs a little, and opens his eyes blearily. "Here!" he says, raising his hand.

"Good old Dwight," says Michael. "You are my faithful friend, Dwight." His eyes are shining moistly, and his voice is tight.

Dwight's pallid face breaks into a wide smile. "I am your Sam Gamgee, Michael," he says, sitting up again.

"Yes, you are," says Michael warmly, clasping Dwight's forearm. "Whatever that may mean."

Dwight appears to be struggling inwardly, his hand still locked around Michael's arm, his upper body a little unsteady. "Mr. Frodo... think'm going to vomit," he mumbles.

"Shit! Not here!" shouts Michael, shaking free of Dwight's grasp. There is a momentary scramble, as they all try to get out of the booth at the same time.

"Take few deep breaths, Dwight," says Jim, helping him slide to the edge of the bench. "Mind over matter, buddy."

Dwight obeys, drawing in a few shaky breaths. "Ah," he says, after a moment or two. "False alarm." They take their seats again, though Michael insists on leaving Dwight the spot with the quickest escape route.

The margaritas arrive, and Dwight manages to order a pot of camomile tea. The music is loud enough now that they have to shout to be heard.

Kevin, who is sitting between Jim and Pam and the rest of the booth, drinks his margarita in what looks like one continuous swallow. He smacks his lips. "Too bright in here," he announces to the table. "Just because my eyes are closed, guys, doesn't mean I'm asleep." His lids slide the extra few degrees to close completely.

Across the table, Ryan mimes keeling over, points at Kevin, and says something that Pam can't hear over the roar of the bar. Michael and Dwight laugh appreciatively.

Pam turns to Jim. "So..." she murmurs. "Are you going to tell this story, or do you need me to get you started?"

He sighs into her hair. "Don't worry. You've done that much already."

In the pause that follows, in which she feels her skin begin to hum more rapidly, she knows there is no more safe ground. She is giddy with fear, and so her next words are very brief. "Tell me."

Jim takes a deep breath. "This was my second year of college," he begins, "and she was -- should I explain who she was?"

"You could," she answers, "but I don't think it's necessary. I've got this weird feeling she's about to be replaced."

She waits a beat. "Jesus," he says again, inhaling sharply. "Do you have any--"

They are interrupted by a flash, as Michael takes a picture up Kevin's nose with his camera phone. On the other side of the booth, Ryan and Dwight appear to be preparing to arm-wrestle.

Jim regains his composure. "That's weird. You're right. She is being replaced even as I speak. Apparently, it was you who worked with me in the student union. How did I never notice that before?"

Pam feels the world spin, and holds tightly to the edge of the table with both hands. "I have one of those faces. Carry on," she adds, as he seems to be about to contradict her.

"It was late. I was walking her to her car. I mean, you. I was walking you to your car, and when we were going past the tennis courts, you said how beautiful a night it was, and right then, the power went out. It was already dark, of course, but all the outdoor lights and the ones from the buildings were gone and it was just... black, all of a sudden."

"Black trees, black buildings, black sky," nods Pam. "Black with black accents."

"Exactly. After a while, our eyes adjusted, and then we looked up, and it was like there were five times as many stars as there were before. We were about to keep walking, and then... I don't know why... you just stopped, and grabbed my hand and said, 'We can't waste this.'" Jim's mouth is warm at her ear. "And you kissed me."

"Was I a good kisser?"

He laughs. "Amazing, but I was sort of paralyzed. I mean, I'd had a few girlfriends and everything, but you were-- I didn't really know you very well. I'd never kissed a girl I didn't know before."

"Then what happened?" she asks.

"We were... well, actually, I don't know how you felt, but I was dizzy and there was nothing around. There was blacktop and the parking lot and bike racks. So I was glad when you pulled me over to the fence with you. There was a section, away from the path, that had been sort of knocked backward a bit, and it gave even more when we leaned against it."

She looks across the booth again. Ryan shoots her a curious glance, just as Dwight slides an ice cube down the back of his neck. A short scuffle ensues. "And how was kissing me against a fence?" she asks Jim.

"You were so... I don't know what the word is. It was like you were reading my mind. Have I mentioned that you were also hot as Hades?"

Pam considers. "No, but you can skip that part. What were we doing?"

"My hands were up in your hair, and you grabbed them, and slid them down, over your breasts, down your body to your hips and then back up again. And then I think my brain broke." He is silent for a second. "It's a bit hazy after that."

"It better not be," she says.

"Look," Jim says hoarsely. "I don't know if I can do this. You are making me insane."

She laughs lightly, low in her throat. "Oh? Tell me why. Be explicit."

"Stop it!" he retorts, but there is laughter in his voice too. "You are something, you know that?" He sighs again, and runs his fingers distractedly over his jaw. Leaning toward her, he whispers, "I want to keep going, but I can't just sit here and talk to you like this, and not be touching you."

"Who on earth told you you couldn't?" says Pam.

She raises her eyes, just a little, to find he is openly staring at her. His face breaks into a delighted grin. "I can't believe this is you, too," he says. "You are unbelievable, Pam."

He is letting her know how powerful she is, and though the knowledge thrills her, she knows where this way leads: to the parking lot, white lines on black pavement, the end of the road. This is not what she wants. "Don't," she murmurs, bringing her mouth close to his ear. "If we think too much, we might not do this."

"I know," he says, and she feels his hand glide, almost casually, from the nape of her neck to her lower back. The touch is familiar and friendly and at the same time brings the blood to her face in a rush. She takes refuge in a sip of her melting margarita. His fingers pause at the edge of her thin shirt, and play with the fabric there.

"Keep talking," she breathes. "You hadn't finished the story."

In the dimming light, it's harder to judge whether the others are looking at them any more. Dwight and Michael seem to be having an animated conversation involving a series of complicated hand gestures, while Ryan, by contrast, looks like a statue, his head resting heavily on his hand, his face in darkness.

Jim's voice is unsteady. "I'm having trouble remembering much about it, right now."

"That's funny," she says. "You were so detailed up to this point, and now you blank out?"

"There's a good reason for that."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Um, up until pretty recently, that was just about the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me," he says, "and for some reason it doesn't seem very important tonight." His fingertips dip and find her bare skin. The music is even louder now, and the rhythm vibrates in her glass, in the floor, in the bench.

"Conga!" shrieks Michael, startling everyone except Kevin, who remans immobile. "Who wants to dance? Sister Pam? Come conga with the Reverend Michael Scott!"

She smiles up at him. "I'm tired, Michael."

"Oh, come on!" Michael shouts. Dwight is on his feet already, and is wriggling back and forth, wildly off the beat but ecstatic.

Pam shakes her head.

"Jim? Ryan?" asks Michael. He shrugs, and punches Ryan affectionately. "Your loss, loser lame-o losertons. Let's show 'em how we roll, Dwight!"

The two make their way out of the booth and disappear into the centre of the crowd, Dwight's fists pumping into the air.

Ryan resumes his former posture. The only movement from Kevin is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Pam sighs, and changes her position, so that she is reclining a little against Jim. She has to tilt her face up to whisper to him. "Fence," she says.

"Hmm?"

"Fence. Starlight. Your hands running over me."

"Right." He swallows and nods. "You feel... you felt... so warm and soft," he says, tracing a slow circle with one finger at the base of her spine.

She arches a little under his touch. "Then what?" She feels his hand glide around her, exploring the skin of her abdomen, following the waistband of her skirt.

"You turned us around so that my back was to the fence. I think you unbuttoned my shirt. Then you grabbed my hands and pushed them away from you, and for a second I thought I'd done something wrong, but then you wrapped my fingers around the wires of the chain link on either side of me."

Pam can see this other woman, this reflection of herself who is not her, standing with Jim in the shadows, pinning his arms at his sides, her eyes issuing a challenge. The image is more vivid than the messy jumble of noise and dark shapes in the bar.

"And you were moving, pressing your body against me, and your hands were everywhere. And I guess... you were not like the girls I'd been with before. You weren't self-consious about showing me what you wanted." He waits.

She bites at her lower lip. "And what did I want?" she asks, already knowing the answer. Her heart hammers in her chest, and she can feel his rapid breaths on her neck.

For the first time, she can feel his lips touch her ear as he whispers to her: "Refresh my memory."

"Mmm," she says. She slides one hand slowly off the edge of the table, gliding over the fabric of his wool pants, up the tense muscles of his thigh.

He catches at her hand. She makes a frustrated sound, and tries again. "Stop," he whispers. "Pam, stop."

She does, unwillingly. "Why?"

"Ryan knows. I think he's watching us right now."

She slants a glance across the booth. Though his face is still obscured, she can see the light of the guttering candle reflected in Ryan's eyes. They are dark, and unmistakably aware.

She can feel the combined thrum of the music and her own pulse between her legs, and she can't turn back now. "Let him," she says.

The music changes tempo, and Jim's arm tightens around Pam. He does not speak, but he slowly releases her wrist. She reaches behind her and wraps her hand around him, through the coarse fabric of his suit pants, and feels him flinch and exhale.

"Is this what I wanted?" she asks.

His voice is ragged. "Yes," he says. "God, yes."

The sound of her own heartbeat in her ears grows louder and a haze threatens to engulf her. She fights to regain control, needing to be present and for this to be happening. When her vision clears, her gaze is drawn back to the other side of the table. Ryan's face is a blank and his eyes are glassy, but he breathes like a runner.

She lets her head fall back onto Jim's shoulder, without breaking eye contact with Ryan, and uses her other hand to urge Jim's downward. He strokes the soft skin below her navel, his fingers negotiating their way under the waistband of her skirt. They stop at the top edge of her panties.

"Tell me you want this," he says.

"You already know," she says.

"Tell me anyway."

"I want this. I want you. I want everything," she says. The words spill out of her, and she doesn't know if she's making any sense, but Jim seems to understand. His hand slides over the flat of her belly and she shivers in exquisite dread and exhilaration as two of his fingers slip inside her.

Ryan's eyes never leave hers. She sighs, and sees him lick his lip. "What did we do next?" she asks. When Jim doesn't answer, she stops moving, and he moans into her ear.

"Please," he says brokenly, "I can't--"

"Try," she says. "Tell me how you felt."

"Like right now. Like I'm on fire." The fingers of his other hand do figure eights under her shirt.

Ryan's eyes blink closed, long eyelashes on his cheeks as he stares for a moment at the table. Then his gaze flicks back to her face, and a sharp jolt like a small electric charge travels through her.

"Then what?" she whispers. Jim's fingers dip and circle, finding the place that makes her breath catch and her fingers tighten on him.

"You told me not to move. You said I wasn't allowed to move, and then you unbuttoned my jeans, and grabbed me. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them you were kneeling and I was in your mouth. You had one hand between your legs." His ribcage rises and falls in time with hers, and his fingers curl into her, moving slickly as she arches slightly to meet them. He leans into her neck and kisses her, and she whimpers. "And you were making these amazing sounds, just like that one."

She pictures the Pam that is not her making Jim's knuckles whiten around the links of a fence on a campus she did not attend. "I wish I really was her," she murmurs. She feels the ache in her center begin to swell and blossom as his fingertips move faster.

"Pam," he says breathlessly, "I wish you were too."

It is enough, and she closes her eyes. The universe contracts to the size of his hand. There is no Ryan, no bar, no doubt, no guilt. Nothing matters except his fingers on her. Her body trembles and the glasses clatter as her knees buck and hit the underside of the table, hard, and her mind turns inside out.

He holds her as she struggles back to herself, opening his mouth to speak, but as soon as she can move again, she opens her eyes and grabs for her coat. "Are you--" he begins, alarmed.

"Follow me," she says, and makes her way unsteadily toward the door, leaving Ryan and the light of the candles and the throb of the music behind.

Jim obeys, and as they pass out into the night she grabs his hand and pulls him with her into the welcome darkness of the covered archway in front of a closed restaurant. She leans back against the cool bricks and feels him stumble gratefully against her. The night air smells of cigarettes and wet cement. Her hands find his belt, pull it open, fumble with his fly.

"Pam..." he says, uncertainly, but she is determined and she pulls him closer, impatiently pushing aside the fabric of her skirt. There is a moment in which she thinks he will stop, that this will be over, and then his hands tighten around her hips and she feels him sink into her and then she stops thinking.

She holds onto his shoulders and he lifts her a few inches above the ground, the wall rough and wonderful against her back, her legs around him. He presses his face to her neck, and buries himself in her, and she holds him tightly as he shudders and murmurs her name.

The street is empty. The wail of a far-away siren and the rasp of their labored breathing are the only sounds.

She is the first to pull away, rearranging her skirt and her coat. Standing on tiptoe, she kisses his lips, his forehead, and then his cheek. "I have to go," she says.

"What?"

"Good night, Jim," she says.

Jim's eyes are uncomprehending, then wary. He catches at her hand. "Come home with me," he says.

She bites her lip. "Good night."

"Come home with me, Pam."

She knows what her answer should be. He waits.