It didn’t take long to see the conflict Pam’s emotions were having. She worked hard to cover it, but it was like covering a table with a wash cloth rather than a table cloth. Her emotions often felt too unbridled to contain. 

When Jim came to her radiating excitement, her first thought was he thought of a new, enticing prank for Dwight. Instead, he calmed his frantic movements and matched it to his tone. He was an animated and witty talker, but subdued his tone when talking to her.

He could hardly contain the words as they spilled out without warning, yet smooth and even, “Pamtheresanartshow.” 

Pam raised an eyebrow, clearly bewildered by the incoherent sentence.

“Pam, there’s an art show. I think you should do it. Will you do it? It’ll be so cool! You’ll do it right?” Jim rambled.

She processed his words, remembering the poster Mr. Flenderson had shown them. The art show for the elementary school. It was small, but it meant she would have to show her art. That’s when her mind began to spin. Sharing her art meant people could judge it, and the what ifs seemed to bubble to the brim, like fizz when you first open a coca-cola. Showing her art meant showing a part of her vulnerability. Her tentative nod didn’t phase Jim one bit. He watched her chew on her lower lip, her nails subconsciously scratching at her cuticles. Yet, the green in her eyes danced. 

“I’ll come, so you won’t be alone. I’ll make sure nothing happens! Pinky promise!” Jim cheered, sticky his pinky finger in front of her.

Pam stood for a second, looking at Jim’s yellow sneakers, they were soft yet charismatic. When the sun hit them, she was pretty sure a car could see him at night. She fidgeted with a loose string on her sleeve, then looked back up. His smile was hopeful and bright, making the jump worth it.

She took his pinky, their small hands effortlessly gripping one another, making a sealed promise. She would do this. She looked up at Jim, her ginger hair glittering from the sun. Her eyes met his for a few seconds and she didn’t feel the shiver that usually came upon her and forced her to break the contact. 

••

Her paintbrush seemed to paint itself that night. She sat on her kitchen counter, indulging in the freeing strokes of the watercolor she was previously working on. It was finished, but missing something. She sat patiently waiting for it to jump out at her as she analyzed ever detail. It spoke so much more than her words could. She signed “Pam Beesly” on it, and put it next to her backpack in the mud room.