Jim discovered Pam was a bed hog very early on in the relationship. She was tiny, much smaller than him, but somewhere in the night it was as if she grew exponentially. Not only did Pam not abide by the rules of having a ‘side of the bed’, she completely disregarded the fact that Jim was there sometimes. Not on purpose of course, and most of the time he found it rather endearing. They might start out on their respective sides, Jim on the right and Pam on the left, but at some time in the night Pam would begin to migrate. He’d woken up on more than one occasion with Pam actually laying half sprawled across him – sometimes on her back, sometimes on her stomach – one arm flung across his neck and her body at an obnoxious angle that would indicate she thought she was sleeping alone. On the days when Jim woke up first, he’d gently extract himself from the tangled mass of Pam’s limbs and slide her back over just enough so he could lay there comfortably again. Usually once he was settled again, Jim would gather Pam up in his arms and relish the few last minutes of sleep before it was time to start getting ready for work. He pretended to mind, even teased her about it often, saying he might as well be on the couch. But it didn’t really bother him, not one bit.

No matter how hard she tries, Pam can’t sleep unless the closet doors are completely closed or completely open, there is no half-way about it. She’s tried to ignore the odd sensation she feels when the doors aren’t either completely closed or completely closed, but she can’t.

“It’s like someone is watching me,” Pam explained to Jim one night when she climbed over him and reached over to slide the doors closed. Jim slept on the right side closest to the closet, and it was simply easier for Pam to climb over him than go around. “I just don’t like it.”

It was cute really, the first time she tried sleeping with the door partially opened. Pam was on her side, facing away from the closet door. She thought maybe if she couldn’t see it, it wouldn’t bother her. Yet as the minutes ticked by, Jim knew she wasn’t any closer to falling asleep than she had been ten minutes earlier.

“I can close them,” Jim offered in the darkness.

“No, it’s fine, leave them…I can’t do it Jim, close them please!” Pam sighed.

Jim chuckled, sitting up and leaning over to catch the knob in his hand. He slid the door closed and when he settled back to his earlier place in bed, Pam had already taken over half of it, resting comfortably in the middle.

Watching Pam arrange her food on the dinner plate was always humorous – especially if her veggie of choice that evening were peas. They would roll around on the plate and “contaminate” the other foods, particularly the mashed potatoes. And the potatoes couldn’t touch the meat because then it would be messy. She had a thing about her food looking aesthetically pleasing before eating it, Jim couldn’t figure out why but he would bet five bucks it had something to do with her eye for art. Once everything was neatly arranged, untouched by the other foods, then Pam would eat. Dinnertime was usually dragged out a little longer than necessary, but it wasn’t as though Jim had anywhere else to be on a week night but spending time with Pam, after all. Dinner could take its sweet time, for all he cared.

The first few times Jim watched Pam dart up the outer staircase to his apartment, he thought it was odd. She hurriedly took the steps two at a time, never looking down at the concrete below. Finally, after what seemed like weeks of this pattern – Pam rushing up the stairs and breathlessly waiting for him at his front door, Jim reaching her moments later – he asked her why she always seemed to be racing. Pam’s face turned bright red and Jim knew he was going to find her answer incredibly entertaining.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” she’d asked.

“Oh c’mon, I can’t promise, especially with a look like that…” But Jim did tried, really truly; he just couldn’t help it when the story came spilling out.

“When I was little my grandparents lived in this house that had an open staircase coming up from the basement. It was just this wooden staircase that I was terrified of because one time my grandma was carrying the laundry up and one of the boards broke. And the basement was always so dim, no matter what time of day, or if the lights were on. We played down there sometimes but it was spooky, and then my cousin told me that there was a monster hiding there that you couldn’t see until he grabbed your ankles and dragged you under the stairs and ate you…” Pam trailed off when she looked at Jim’s face, the corners of his mouth fighting desperately to not turn into a grin.

“Pam, how old were you at the time?” he ventured cautiously.

“I knew you’d laugh!” Pam tried to sound hurt, but she was laughing too. “You don’t understand the psychological trauma of being told there are monsters in your grandparents’ basement and feeling the urge to run quickly up flights of stairs for so long, that it becomes a habit!”

“You’re right Beesly, I don’t. Just don’t pass along the insanity to any future generations, okay?”

Pam grinned. “I can’t promise that…”

Saturday mornings were Jim’s favorite time of the week. He loved sleeping in until ten and waking up with Pam sleeping fitfully next to him, sometimes on him, given her penchant for stealing the entire bed from him. He also loved staying in their pajamas until noon and basically spending the day being lazy. For Jim this meant watching a basketball game and for Pam it meant working in her studio that was finally complete. In all honesty, these were not unlike the Sundays Pam and Roy had spent together – the only difference was Roy was watching football, and didn’t pay much attention to whatever art project Pam was working on at the time. Not to mention in their apartment she’d only had the kitchen table to work at; in this house she had a whole freaking studio.

Jim loved a lot about Saturdays, but the only thing he adored above all else was sneaking a look at Pam when she was concentrating solely on her art project, submersed in a world all her own. Her forehead crinkled and she had a fierceness in her eyes that gave away exactly how much she loved her art. The one tiny detail though, that Jim loved more than anything else, was the way Pam’s tongue stuck slightly out of the corner of her mouth when she was lost in thought. She was concentrating so hard on the project at hand, she didn’t even notice her odd expression or the fact that Jim was standing at the door enjoying finally seeing her truly happy.