It turned out that a day of exile in the annex--a day that forced Jim to conjure superhuman powers to endure equally superhuman lightspeed-babble--bestowed certain rewards on the exiled.

Jim’s rewards--all seven of Pam’s voicemails--floated into his ear, her voice a soft, downy blanket that muted the manic echos of the one-sided schoolgirl chatter that rattled in his head. The corner of his mouth twitched as a familiar warm rush spread across his chest, lifting the weight of the day and clearing space in his lungs for a deep, calm breath. He listened to each message once, saved them, and forwarded them to his cell phone.

As he drove home, one hand curled around the steering wheel while the other lived in his coat pocket, his fingers drumming steadily on his phone.

In his bedroom, he draped his coat over the back of his chair--its usual place when he lacked company. He swapped his slacks for jeans, his button-down for a sweatshirt, and stowed his phone in the hoodie’s oversized front pocket. For hours he resisted the constant, mounting urge to dial his voicemail. Instead, fragments of messages drifted in and out of his mind as he stood at the counter and-- I keep looking up to say something to you --microwaved his dinner, as he sunk into the corner of the couch-- can have a career as a very specific type of decorator --and absently scanned the channels, as he bent over the sink-- that involves an interdepartmental conspiracy --and rinsed his toothbrush.

His phone went to bed with him, lying on the edge of his pillow as he stretched out and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders. He stared at the ceiling. His chest suddenly tightened, punctured by a sharp ache behind his breastbone.

With a lurch, he reached across his body and grabbed his phone. He flipped it open, frantically dialed into his voicemail, and slapped the phone to his ear. Hey, Jim. It’s Pam.

He closed his eyes.

Who knows what would have happened, so, thank you.

He pressed his palm to his forehead and drove the back of his head into the pillow.

I’m not messing this up, so I’ll see you tomorrow.

He forced his fingers into his hair and squeezed a fistful as he caught the sound of her breaths between her words. His mind scrambled to reimagine his reality. It cleared the digital distortion from Pam’s voice and placed her on top of him, her knees against his sides, her hands above his shoulders.

Shutting out his empty room, Jim squeezed his eyes tightly and let himself fall into this version of his life. This version, where Pam’s lips brushed his ear, making goosebumps rise on his neck. Where she slid her hands under his back and pulled herself closer to him. Where--

End of messages.

Eyes still closed, he reflexively restarted her messages.

Hey, Jim.

Jim.

She followed his name with a soft kiss high on his cheekbone. Her words registered selectively; some went unheard while others lingered in his ear.

--need--

He tensed, flexing, shifting under her.

--please--

His breath stalled as she pushed herself up and trailed her fingertips down the center of his chest. Down. Over his hip.

--there--

Heat surged up his body and into his face. He cycled through her messages again. And again. He lost track of how many times.

The next morning, Pam waved him over to her desk. Coffee, in his usual mug, waited for him beside her desk placard.

He tilted his head. “How did you--”

“You looked tired.”

“Well, that’s”--he paused, curving his hand around his mug--"accurate.”

“Anyway,” she said. “I remembered the word!”

“The word that we made up.”

“Yes! Last night, before I fell asleep. I wrote it down.” She slapped a post-it note next to his hand.

“I haven’t gotten over the fact that you forgot it in the first place,” he said, smirking at her over the rim of his mug.

“Do you remember it?” she asked, covering the note with her hand.

He scoffed through his nose as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Beesly, come on. I remember everything.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Everything?”

“Real and imagined.”

As he waited for her to surrender the post-it, he scanned her face. A hint of pink colored her cheeks as she flashed him a bright-eyed smile. He nearly faltered--stopped the game--when she bit her bottom lip, sliding her hand away from the note to sweep her hair off her forehead. The corners of his mouth fell into a serious line, and he looked down into his coffee, struggling to block the vivid images that threatened to burst through his sleep-deprived fog to the front of his brain.

Pam’s voice--smaller, quieter--pulled him out of his haze. “No wonder you have such a big head,” she said.

“It’s like a Mary Poppins bag in there,” he said through a soft laugh, plucking the note off the desk. “You have no idea.”

She smiled broadly as he stepped backwards and spun toward his chair.

At his desk, he sipped his coffee and glanced down at Pam’s note.

Indisko! I was thinking of you and remembered!

He blinked, setting his mug on the desk.

I was thinking of you.

Jim breathed through the tight knot in his chest, opened his desk drawer, and added Pam’s note to an edge-curled stack in the corner. Then he leaned forward in his chair, staring at his monitor, unable to think of anything except the way Pam’s written words might sound with her arms wrapped around him, her voice a soft whisper in his ear.