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Author's Chapter Notes:
Well, I don't normally write Jim/Pam unless an idea really grabs me, and I was thinking about that stupid card we'll never know the contents of.  Why did Jim feel something enough to include it?  Why Jim, why??  So.  I wrote some Jim/Pam.  Here it is.

 

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. – Hysteria, by T.S. Eliot

 

She’s in his car.

It’s not the first time, yet it’s somehow different; just a few days ago, she was in his room.  She sat on his bed, and she laughed. 

So he looks at her as she settles in, buckling her seat belt and adjusting her jacket, and he thinks that this, this is something new.  He starts the car.

“Okay, now that we’ve made our escape, do you want to tell me why we’re going out to lunch?”

“You don’t trust me?”

She hesitates, and he thinks, I did that, I have an effect. Something has changed.

“No, I do…I was just curious.”

“Michael kept singing ‘Islands in the Stream’ at me, so I needed a break.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, I hate eating alone.”

“I see.  It wasn’t me, you just needed someone.”

He struggles, using everything he has not to say of course it’s you, it’s always you.  Covering with a laugh, he turns up the music and shrugs. “You were just the first person I saw.  Sorry if that’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

Quiet settles in, and with that come his thoughts, repeating she’s here with me over and over again until she speaks, breaking the chain.

“I like this song.”

“Good; that proves you have good taste.”

She laughs again, and his chest tightens.

“Gee, thanks.  Actually, I liked pretty much everything you were playing at your house the other night, too.”

“Yeah?”  Your house.  He wants her to repeat that forever.

“Yep.  Maybe you could burn some of what you were playing for me?”

“Burn it?  I’m against the burning of innocent music, Pam.”

“Hahaha, you’re so funny.  You know what I mean.”

“Even better than burning, I’ll make you a mix tape.”

“A mix tape?  That will work…if you give me a Walkman too.”

“Your car doesn’t have a CD player.  I don’t want to you have to listen to the radio while you’re driving.”

“Oh, the horror.”

“It is horrible.  I’m just trying to expose you to some culture, Pam.  I know you’re an artist, but you need to be more well-rounded.”

“I’m not an artist.”

“Yes you are, and you know it.”

“Thanks, Jim.”  She reaches to turn down the radio slightly, and he glances over to meet her eyes. Different

“It’s the truth.”

She’s blushing; he can hear it in her voice. “A mix tape would be nice for my car.  I mean, not all of us can have an iPod.” 

“Hey, I sat up at my desk every day and watched Dwight work hard so I could buy that iPod.”

“Or, your parents bought it for you as a birthday present.”

“Wow. Foiled by your elephant-like memory.  You remember?”

“Yep.  And are you calling me fat?”

“Well, yes.  My poor car is suffering untold damage from all the excess weight on the passenger side.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, we’re here, so if you want to have a silent lunch, then okay.  But if I have to be quiet, I’m not buying.”

She sighs, grinning over at him. “If you’re buying, then talk all you want.”

He wishes that they didn’t have to leave the car.

* * * * *

He watches as she rips open her tea bag, placing the wrapper on the edge of the table. 

“So how is the tea?”

“I don’t know, I have to get it the right color.”

“Oh, it’s about color.”

“Well, I’ve found that color and flavor match up when it comes to tea.”

“You should write an article about it for Tea Monthly.”

“I did. It’s not my fault you failed to renew your subscription.”  She blows on the tea, sending a wisp of steam in his direction, and he inhales like he might be breathing her in.

“Okay, now that you’ve tasted it, I’ll ask again: how is the tea?”

She smiles. “It’s very good.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I wish I could make tea at my desk.”

“In case Judi Dench comes to Dunder Mifflin and you need to offer her something to drink?”

“How did you know?”

“I know you so well.”

“Seriously, it gets so cold by my desk, I would love to have a pot of hot tea there.  It would be…snuggly.”

“Snuggly?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything, I’m just thinking how my delicious cup of coffee that I’m drinking makes me feel so warm and fuzzily.”

“You’ve made your point.”  She crosses her arms, but she’s laughing, laughing, laughing.  And he laughs with her because that’s what he does.

They’re halfway through eating when he realizes that she hasn’t mentioned Roy and will not mention Roy, because it’s like a game they play and she always plays along.  He knows that to anyone paying attention, they’re just two people, together, eating lunch.  He nearly does a double take when he recognizes that he was starting to believe it, too.

“So. Pam.”

“Yes. Jim.” 

“You know what this afternoon is.”

“Oh, how could I forget?  Michael made me decorate the box this morning.”

“We’re using a box?”

“Yeah, and I even drew a little Santa on the side.”

“Does he look secretive?”

“Yeah, I gave him a white handlebar mustache that he’s twirling.”

“If that were true, Pam, you would win…something.”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

She shifts in her chair, pouring more hot water into her mug.  Her hand brushes his as she reaches for her tea bag, and her foot grazes his under the table.  He looks her in the eye and she smiles at him, doesn’t pull away or flinch, doesn’t try to take it back like swaying isn’t dancing or you should go for that job.  Maybe he already had his legs stretched out too far, or moved his hand closer at the last minute, but everything feels different and he feels like pushing invisible boundaries and breaking unspoken rules.

So he does.  He hasn’t found any resistance yet.

He doesn’t remember what he says, but he keeps saying it as she laughs all the way home.  He lets her laughter fill him up, but it’s not the same as he realizes that he can always make her laugh; it’s making her his that he has trouble with.  He thinks that maybe this is all a preview before a movie he’s been waiting to see. 

And he loves previews, so he keeps making her laugh over and over again.

In the elevator, the laughter has died down because he’s stopped talking, too busy trying to figure out when they might be alone again; when they can repeat this day until it’s become a routine.  He’s anticipating the doors opening when she nudges him with her shoulder, and he looks down to meet her smile.

“We should do this again.”

The minute she says it, he decides that no matter what name he picks, he’s getting her a present anyway.

* * * * *

He gets home late, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter and carrying the box up to his room.  Setting it on his bed, he realizes that he’s bought his present three weeks early.  And it still doesn’t seem right, seem perfect, because he wants to do something, anything, to let her know, to make her acknowledge it.

Sitting in his chair, he looks at the spot on his bed where she sat, and opens his bottom drawer, reaching to the back.  Pulling out a handful of random items, he places them on top of his closed laptop and sorts through them.

Because if he keeps all of the random pieces of her he’s collected over the years hidden in the back of a drawer, he doesn’t have to admit what it means. 

Making a pile of what to include, he pushes it aside and makes a list of songs. 

He remembers her laughing, and rearranges the fragments of the afternoon in his head until it makes sense.  Different. Better. Now.

Pulling the generic card that was displayed by the cash register out of the box on his bed, he writes down inside of it what he feels, feels for her, for them, right at that moment.  How he felt yesterday.  How he felt all afternoon.  How he’ll feel tomorrow.

He seals it up before he can change his mind.  Maybe he can change hers.

 

 

Chapter End Notes:
Full Eliot poem can be found at http://www.bartleby.com/198/10.html.  (It is absolutely beautiful)


Bennie is the author of 28 other stories.
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