Some days are worse than others.

Michael is driving him out of his mind. First it was the monthly sales meeting, which for reasons known only to Michael Scott now has to be held in the break room rather than the conference room. There isn't enough room for everyone to sit so Jim stands for the entire hour, squeezing against the wall every time someone comes in for candy or soda.

Then Michael decides that today would be the perfect day to "strategize" the annual performance reviews, which are coming up in a month. Michael's idea is to base performance reviews on musical ability rather than sales figures, performance goals, or productivity. He asks Jim into his office to help him practice on the steel drum. It takes Jim a full hour to talk him out of that idea; it would take only half an hour but Jim knows that would have involved Michael in tears and he just wasn't ready for that.

Andy decides that today would be a good day to sign everyone up for golf lessons. He goes from desk to desk trying to talk everyone, including Phyllis and Creed, into learning how to putt. A little probing by Jim reveals that Andy is counting on kickbacks from a golf pro who gave the lessons, and Jim has to almost threaten Andy with banishment to the back room before he reluctantly desists.

And then there's Dwight.

"What are you today, a teenage mutant ninja turtle?" Jim asks tersely.

Dwight looks up from his monitor. The camouflage face paint makes him look like a deranged house cat. "The paintball tournament begins at exactly 6:00 PM today, Jim. I don't have time to go home and change after leaving the office."

Jim rubs his eyes. "The samurai swords are scaring me."

"These katanas have been passed down from my grandfather to my father to me," Dwight says fiercely.

"They're plastic, Dwight."

"But they're heirlooms! That means something in my family!"

Jim grits his teeth and wonders if he can slip some Exlax into Dwight's soda to keep in the men's room for the rest of the day. Probably not. Dwight, through long experience, guards his food and drink like a hawk.

Lunch time comes and he's hoping to get up to the roof for a little solitude, but no, here's Toby asking him to talk to Kelly about the excessive sick days she's taking. So he spends lunch with her in the break room, watching her mascara roll down her cheeks as she talks about how depressed she is since Ryan took that job in Philadelphia. He listens to the sound of his carrot sticks crunching in his jaw and wonders if there's anything on earth that can stop Kelly when she's on a roll.

After lunch, Angela corners him and demands that he justify a three-page order he put in over two months ago. He no longer remembers why he needed fourteen boxes of extra large paper clips, but he makes something up on the fly. Her scowl bores holes in him.

Finally five o'clock rolls around and he's free. He waits until Michael is on a phone call, slips his messenger bag over his shoulder and grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair. Thank God it's spring and he doesn't even have to swing by the coat rack for his overcoat; three steps and he's outta there.

The car is hot from baking in full sun all day. He rolls down the windows as he exits the lot. His CD player is on the fritz but that's all right; he hums an old Travis song as he navigates through rush-hour traffic. Over the bridge, three streets down, and a hard left at the corner. The day slips away from him, and he senses the rising bubble of expectation and excitement in his chest.

Then the quiet street, the brick house (mortgage payments for the rest of his life plus ten years), the green yard (needs a trim again) and the driveway (really needs a patch on that cracked cement). He knows better than to try to park in the garage; between the still-packed boxes from the last move and his bicycle from Stamford, there's no room for the car.

He slams the door, slings his bag on his shoulder, and almost bounds to the front door. It opens before he can grab the doorknob and she's there.

"Hi..."

"Hi..."

They say it at the same time, like always. He folds her into his arms and her hair smells like sunshine. Her arms around his waist are small but strong. The house smells like apple pie and meatloaf and macaroni and cheese. And turpentine.

"How did your painting go?" he asks.

She takes his hand. He drapes his messenger bag and suit jacket over the back of the recliner as she leads him through the living room, to the kitchen, out the back door to the patio where she set up her easel last weekend. He stops and stares at the explosion of brilliant reds and blues spattered across the canvas. The smell of turpentine and oil paints is strong.

"Wow. A self-portrait!"

She pokes him in the side, where she knows he's ticklish, and he flinches, grinning.

"I woke up this morning with an idea for a series of studies. Color studies, really, two colors at a time. This isn't quite what I had in mind--"

He stops her with a kiss. "After dinner, okay? Feed me, woman, and I'll listen to anything you have to say."

She kisses him back, her hands in his hair (she's always done that, and he loves it, but he wonders if she's leaving red paint in his hair and what the hell, he doesn't care) and for a long sweet moment he thinks maybe dinner can wait.

Then she pulls away and grins and walks off into the kitchen. He keeps telling her that it's okay if she feeds him take-out or TV dinners, or he'd be happy to take her out to dinner. She doesn't have to cook for him if it would interfere with her art, but she ignores him. "Cooking is an art, too," she says.

His stomach growls and he decides to let her win the argument.

"Dinner in ten minutes," she says.

In the bedroom, he changes into a T-shirt and jeans, kicks off his shoes. One of the things they used to argue about was his habit of sitting down to dinner barefoot; for some reason she thought it was barbaric. He won that argument but knows not to let it go to his head; she can be damned persuasive at times.

When he washes his hands for dinner, he notices that she didn't do the laundry today. There are no clean towels. He makes a note to do it after dinner, without telling her.

He strides back into the kitchen. She's just setting the dish of macaroni and cheese (which smells like heaven) on the table. He catches her from behind, sweeping the hair off her neck as he places a long kiss at her nape. She sighs, leans back into him. His hands drift down to her waist, circle it, barely reaching around the bulge of their son in her belly, soon to arrive. He pats them both and plants his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

Michael, Dwight, Andy, Kelly, Angela...they disappear from his mind. This is the real world. This is where he really lives.

"I love you," he whispers into her neck. He has said it every single day since their wedding.

"I love you," she murmurs back. She has said it every single day since their wedding.

It's still new, still amazing, still warm. He stands with her in his arms, holding the two of them and closes his eyes.

Some days are better than others.