She suspects something on Karaoke Night.  Poor Richard’s started hosting it every Friday to get people away from the unusual springtime heat, promising cold drinks and good entertainment.  That was all Michael needed to hear and another weekly camaraderie event was born.  Pam goes to spare Michael’s feelings and the excuse for her and Roy to go out on a Friday night.  Though one particular Friday, even a mandated company function wasn’t enough to drag him away from a loud sports bar, and so she goes alone.  She finds Jim chugging the last of what appears to be, from the collection of mugs on the table, his third beer and slips on to the seat beside him.

“Hard day?”

“Oh, you know, just happened to piss off my best friend at work.”

She rubs a hand across her forehead.  “Seriously Jim, don’t worry about it.”

“No no, hey, I screwed up.  That was…does Toby, like, always carry a notepad around when we vent?  I didn’t know he was going to write anything…”

“Just forget about it, okay?  Really.”  She hits the last word hard because all she wants to do is forget today and avoid this conversation at all costs.

“At least let me buy you a drink.  Hey,” he calls to the bartender.  “Another beer here and…” he gestures towards Pam, sighing as she takes off her cardigan.

“White wine, please.”

“Nice.  Classy.”

“Pam-e-la, I just met a girl named Pam-e-la!  Pam, they have show tunes in here!”  Michael waves the karaoke book in front of her wildly.  “You know what you guys should do?  ‘Summer Lovin’ from Grease.  Summer lovin’ had me a blast…” he sings in falsetto and Pam places a hand gently to her ear.

“No, I don’t think I’m going to sing.  Thanks though.”

“Boo, you whore!  ‘Mean Girls.’  How ‘bout you, Jimmy Jim Jim?”  He claps his hand enthusiastically on Jim’s back and he looks like he might be ill.

“Uhh yeah, you know, maybe I will.  Can I take a look?”  

Michael beams as he hands over the book and leaves to harass Ryan into singing Backstreet Boys.

“Any requests?”  Jim asks, his eyes never leaving the book.

“No, I’m uh, good, thanks.”

“Abba, Avril Lavigne, Beatles, Beach Boys…it’ll be tough to choose.”

She can see the beer start to fog his common sense and knows she’s in for a rough night.  

He flips through a few more pages before his finger lands decisively on the sheet of plastic.

“Wait, yes, we have a winner.  Be right back.”  There’s absolutely no line of people waiting to sing so Jim jogs right up to the DJ, whispers his request, and leaps onto the small stage, cradling the microphone.

“Yes, hello, is this thing—yes, you can hear me?”  He taps the hot mic loudly and sways with it back and forth.

“Umm, I’m Jim from Dunder-Mifflin.”  Michael lets out a loud whoop from the crowd followed by a “represent!”

“And uhh, I’m going to sing a song.  It is dedicated to a very good friend of mine, Miss Pam Beesly.  Aaaaaaand, I hope she likes it.  Here we go.”

A bad recording of guitars and saxophones echoes on the bar walls while Jim clutches the microphone, putting his mouth so close it looks like he might actually eat it.

“The strands in your eyes that color them wonderful stop me and steal my breath.”

His singing is terrible, he can’t find a key, and he’s rocking dramatically on his feet with eyes closed.  

“Tell me that we belong together.  Dress it up with the trappings of love.”

People look from him to her back to him again, the confusion on their faces never wavering.  

“I'll hang from your lips.  Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above.”

It’s been a humiliating day full of anger, resentment, bitterness.  But instead of those feelings being multiplied with his near-drunken serenade, she feels almost happy.  Not that she’s going to let him know that.

“Pam, Pam…I know you know the chorus, come on.  Iiiiii’ll be, you’re cryin’ shouldeeer.”

She just shakes her head and covers a small smile with her hand.  He finishes the song without her and is met with mild applause, though he still seems quite proud of himself as he struts back over to his seat.

“It’s gonna be tough to follow that one, right?”  he asks, taking another swig of beer.

“Oh yeah.  Out of curiosity, why exactly did you feel the need to dedicate a 90’s ballad to me?”

He frowns to the table and shrugs.  “I wanted to make you laugh.”

It sounds so heartbreakingly sincere that she wants to forget anything ever happened and go straight to the forgiveness part.  But she doesn’t; she decides to hold on to the grudge a little longer to spare herself the mental exhaustion of wondering why he complained in the first place.  Like she isn’t doing that already.

“Well, I laughed at you.  Does that count?”

He gives a twisted smirk.  “Close enough.”