“Hi, Jim.”
She tears her eyes away from his eyes, manages to slide them away from that familiar smile, and notices that this is very definitely not work-Jim. She has work-Jim itemized, catalogued, identified. She knows every one of the shirts (fairly numerous), pants (fairly few), and ties (fewer still) he wears to the office. She knows which he wears together and which she’s only seen apart. She can even predict his mood a little by the combinations she sees: most basically, if it matches, he’s probably in a good mood, because he got up in time to choose it; if it really, really doesn’t match, he’ll be in a better mood, because he’s probably doing it to distract Dwight; and if it’s just a little off, he’s in a hurry and probably a little pissed off. She doesn’t really know why she knows these things—maybe it’s just a best friend thing, obsessively taking note of everything you can see?—but she does.
And this is none of those work-Jims. This Jim is wearing a thin cotton t-shirts with unidentified stains on it (is that…mustard down the left side?) and sweatpants (baggy, but not too baggy, oh why did she have to check if they were too baggy, he’s definitely going to notice why shouldn’t he notice oh shut up Pam you know why). This Jim is carrying a shopping basket instead of a messenger bag. This Jim is…actually looking at her with the exact same expression he always does, head cocked a little to the side, grin spilling onto his face as if it just slipped out and he isn’t quite aware of it yet. Which calms her. This is still Jim. Just…a new side of him. More Jim to go around. The more the merrier. I mean I didn’t mean that I just meant…
All this goes through her head in the time it takes her to clear her throat, and him to say “Hey.”
Then she processes what he actually said to her first, and glances towards the King’s Hawaiian on the shelf. On the way her eye catches another label that she can’t resist teasing him with.
“Really? I’d have picked you more for a Bimbo man myself.”
Did she really say that? Her brain has just listened to what her mouth decided to say, and she’s embarrassed. She tries to stop herself but she’s already as red as one of Dwight’s beets—and given that he spent a whole afternoon extolling the perfect red-purple shade and how Schrute Farms beets achieve it, she really knows what she’s talking about here. He cocks an eyebrow at her.
“Woah, Beesly, are you trying to tell me something?” (she did not think it was possible for her to redden further) “You get sassy when you get out from behind that desk! But I believe its pronounced BEEEEEEMbo” (he deliberately overemphasizes the E sound until she snorts, and the tension lifts. How does he always do that?).
“You can believe what you want, but I know how to spell.”
“I’m sure you do. Anyway, what’s the occasion? Why Wegman’s? I always thought you were a Price Chopper girl.”
“What? Why?” Why would he think that? More importantly, how does he know that? Because she does usually shop at Price Chopper. Partly for the price—she and Roy are trying to save for that wedding, after all—and partly because, well, she always has. But how does he know?
“Really, Pam? Every day you bring your lunch to work, and it’s always in a blue Price Chopper plastic bag. Every. Day.” He notices these things? But then, she realizes, she’s noticed his is always in a paper bag, with his name written on it in Sharpie at the top. On the days when they don’t eat together in the break room, she’s thought about pulling it out and doodling some picture for him on it: all that blank space going to waste, a perfect canvas for…something. She hasn’t done it yet, but maybe…
“How do you recognize a plastic bag?”
“They’re blue, Beesly. Giant is yellow, Wegman’s is white…c’mon, you’re an artist. I don’t believe you really don’t know these things” And she realizes she does. Of course she does. But she’d never have thought to use it to tell what store he shopped at—not that she could, with his lunch hiding in those paper bags. But while she may not know, she can always make a joke, and it’s time he got as good as he gave. After all, he’s still staring down at her with that smirking grin on his face (she still hasn’t looked away).
“Speaking of which, Halpert, if I’m a Price Chopper girl, you’re definitely not a Wegman’s boy.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, shouldn’t you be with your own kind?”
“And what exactly is my own kind?” Another grin, this one the special one that eggs her on, that tells her he believes she’s at least as funny as him. She likes this grin.
“Well” (she waves a hand up and down) “shouldn’t you be at Giant?”
He throws his head back and laughs (the tshirt rides up again) and she feels as tall as he is in that moment. She puts the two breads she was deciding on back and pulls out the Bimbo, dropping it in her cart. He asks her which of their coworkers is a Wegman’s girl or boy (Oscar, she decides) and where Dwight shops (nowhere, he doesn’t trust food he didn’t grow himself) and Michael (the convenience store on his corner, mostly for candy). Without conscious decision they turn and walk through the aisles together, continuing the conversation. She realizes that she really likes not-work-Jim exactly as much as she likes work-Jim. She tries not to think too hard about how much that might actually be, and ignores the fact that she’s already done all her shopping and should really be heading home.
As they pass by the endcap for the aisle with the jam, she remembers to tell him about Dwight and his beet jam, and he can’t breathe for a moment and she feels a warmth deep down inside. Then the conversation naturally leads to why she knows this, and she’s telling him about Angela and jam (she picks the jar she bought for her birthday up to show him) and the error code, and he’s pulling out his Dunder Mifflin-issued Blackberry and typing into Google and there it is again, in small but legible black and white:
ERROR: ACCESS DENIED. ERROR CODE 4178
