Jim reclined in his desk chair, letting his computer screen blur and tapping his fingers on his desk, bored. Pam was out for the day, at an interview for an art school she was applying to. Dwight was engrossed in something on his computer screen, and even Michael had managed to refrain from any major distractions that morning.
So when Jim’s cell phone rang, he was more than happy to pick it up.
“Hello?” he said, not bothering to check the screen for who it was.
“Hey!” said the voice on the other line.
“Who is this?”
“Seriously, Jim? Would it kill you to check caller id? I need a favor. Are you busy?”
“Pam, honestly, I expected more of you. You know I’m not busy.”
“Great. I need you to go to my house, get my computer, and email one of my files to me. I need it for this interview or they probably won’t even consider me.”
“On it. Thank you, for giving me something other to do than count the pores on Dwight’s face.”
“Ew, is that what you were doing?”
“Um… No…”
“Great, okay, just grab the spare key out of my desk and then call me when you get there.”
“Okay, talk to you soon.”
Jim clicked off the phone, smiling. Dutiful boyfriend he was, he was going to have to blow off the rest of work that day for this. He debated telling Michael he was leaving, but finally decided to slip out quietly. No one in the office even looked up from their desk.

As Jim pulled into the tiny gray parking lot at the foot of Pam’s apartment complex, he called her again on his cell phone. She picked up on the first ring.
“Are you there?”
“Yup, in the elevator right now.”
“Great, my computer is in my room, on the black dresser where-“
“Pam, I know where your computer is, I’ve been in your room a billion times.”
“Don’t make me blush.”
Jim jiggled open the old lock on Pam’s apartment door, slipping inside. The lights were all off, but late afternoon light slanted through the windows, giving everything an orange glow. Jim had never been here without Pam, and now everything felt too quiet, like he was a thief breaking and entering.
Pam’s computer was in its usual spot on top of her dresser, plugged into its charging cable. Jim grabbed it and flopped over on the bed, pulling it open.
“What’s your password?” he asked tentatively. It felt like a weird question.
“It’s pam111.”
“Seriously? Your computer’s gonna get hacked with a password like that.”
“And who would want to hack into my crappy eight year old laptop?”
“Me, maybe.”
“Well know I’ll just have to change the password.”
“Pam222, maybe?”
“Possibly.”
“Okay, I’m in, where’s the file?”
“It should be under my work folder, it’s just some recommendation Michael wrote for me.”
Jim clicked through the files until he found the one labeled work. He clicked it, and several document links popped up. Skimming through them looking for something labeled recommendation or Michael Scott or Dunder Mifflin. But the thing he saw first was labeled with a single word: Jim.
“Jim, you still there?” Pam’s anxious voice came through the cell phone. “I’m running out of time here.”
“Got it, found it,” Jim stuttered, spotting the right folder. He opened up his own email and sent it to her. When she received it a moment later on her phone, Jim heard her breathe an audible sigh of relief. The two hung up on the phone, and Jim was left staring at the computer screen. According to the computer, Pam hadn't opened this file for months. Whatever was in here was probably just something from work, and she'd titled it Jim to remember that's what it was. Every part of Jim was screaming to put the laptop down, leave, and keep out of Pam’s stuff, but a smaller, more curious part reminded him that if it was labeled with his name, he had a right to read it.
This he held in mind as he hesitantly clicked the folder.

The next day, when Pam got to work, Jim was already there. It was a normal morning, they said hi, Pam sat down to answer phone calls, and Jim made calls to his customers. The rest of the office, subdued by the slow Thursday morning, was too tired for its usual drama. Even Michael just sat in his office, half asleep as he stared out the window. But Jim was plenty awake. And curious. He had to try something. And he’d waited for the perfect moment to do it.
Pam was popping a jellybean from the bowl on her desk into her mouth when Jim approached her. He leaned over her desk, peering at her computer.
“Watcha doing?” he asked slowly, dragging the words out as if he were extremely bored.
“Nothing…” Pam replied almost suspiciously. Her eyes seemed to linger on Jim’s tie, blue with silvery thin stripes.
“Well, I’m just coming over here because I want to ask you to come over for dinner tonight. I’m making salad, lasagna, and brownies.”
Jim was in fact making none of these things. These weren’t even things he knew how to make. But this was the line.
“Umm, sounds good, I guess,” Pam stuttered, her face flushing. She tried to look away, but Jim kept his gaze on her steady.
“And it’s supposed to rain, so we should leave early,” Jim continued confidently. That’s when Pam made a break for it. “Um, I need to use the bathroom,” she said a bit too loudly, and stood abruptly, striding away. Jim watched her pull the bathroom door open and disappear inside.
“So it works,” he whispered to himself. This was interesting indeed.

The previous night, Jim hunched over Pam’s laptop in the fading evening light He’d been sitting here for over an hour. But he couldn’t stop reading. The feeling was so odd. He felt like he was reading a book about himself. And in some respects he was.
Pam had filled this file with Jim. Most of the stories were true events, written like diary entries. A couple were things people in the office said about Jim, any rumor that had ever surfaced about him, which, in an office like theirs, was often. And a few stories, buried deep in the recesses of Pam’s computer, were fantasy. Just eight or nine tales, all of which began with Jim picking up Pam for dinner, and ended with a kiss on her doorstep. And each one was so specific, describing Jim’s clothes, the food they ordered, the weather on the drive home. Jim’s favorite was one Pam had written where Jim asked her over for dinner, and cooked salad, lasagna, and brownies for the both of them.
Now, knowing this odd author side of Pam, Jim wasn’t sure what to do. Ignore it, or tell her he knew? Or did it really matter if he knew? Pam was allowed to write whatever she wanted. But Jim wanted to make sure she really meant all these things she’d written, every last one of them. So, he decided to test it out. He memorized the beginning of Pam’s dinner fantasy, word for word. Then he made sure to put on the tie described in the story, do his hair the right way, and even wait for the exact moment to strike up the conversation.
For a moment, Jim felt a little weird. Maybe this was going a little far. But then again, Jim was the master of pranks. And far be it from him to stop Pam from living out a fantasy.