Pam Beesly, the unobtrusive receptionist at Dunder Mifflin Paper Company, woke one morning to discover the sun was grey. “Holy God” she whispered, pulling down her comforter to check she hadn’t transformed into an insect. Reading Metamorphosis always freaked her out.

No, she remained human, yet the sun had turned grey. Not seawater grey, like the pastels she'd left on her nightstand, now tumbling with soft thuds as she punched her alarm clock. Nor was it steel grey like her pencil skirt, tighter around her backside than last year.

The October sun was a sickly grey, as though it had swallowed a rain cloud for breakfast.

Every few minutes, Pam would peek outside. Her eyes were bright green and anxious. She often felt like an intruder and constantly feared discovery. Little Pam Beesly, people often called her, and she looked the part with her tangled curls, either golden or brown, her round face, soft voice, and her habit of twisting her fingers.

The sun did not change back to white. She withdrew from the window, especially since a bread truck crawled up her street, its engines growling in rage.

Yesterday, Dunder Mifflin’s Scranton branch had officially merged with that of Stamford. For a receptionist, this only meant more calls, paperwork, and coffee. Oh, and a documentary crew filming everyone as if a mid-range paper supply company were the Pentagon.

In short, more grey. How long, Pam often asked herself, how long before she broke free of gravity and floated into a black hole?

Two days ago, she painted the Scranton sun in watercolour, using titanium white and yellow gold. She painted Scranton's apartment blocks using Indian red, mixed with burnt umber and Davy's grey. But if the sun of all things had now turned grey, would the Electric City look brighter?

No.

Pam blinked at the sky as she shut her front door. Scranton's flaccid power lines were black as the coal that once enriched the city. How she wished that she were curled up under her teal comforter with ice cream and a movie!

Four months ago, she split from her fiancé, Roy Anderson. No more fights over the channel changer, at last. Roy still loaded trucks at Dunder Mifflin, however, so Pam made polite conversation whenever he sauntered upstairs with a strained, apologetic smile.

By the time Pam reached Scranton Business Park, the sun was still grey, and she could have sworn it was following her. Weren't clouds supposed to do that? She glanced at the tarmac. Were those crystals between the stones? She examined her panty hose. Didn't cobwebs have the same colour? And when she slouched into the elevator, she found herself admiring the metal bars between panels of beige wood. All were prettier shades of grey than the sun.

One part of Scranton Business Park remained white: the door to Vance Refrigeration. Its owner was Bob Vance, a broad man with crisp grey hair slicked back from his forehead, a well-fed face, and a muscular belly hidden under his knitted blue sweaters. Vance was pacing his office as he took a call.

Suppose Pam worked for him instead. She often paused like this, until one of Vance's employees spotted her. Would she have enjoyed it?

A month ago, regional manager Michael Scott revealed that Dunder Mifflin Scranton was closing. Most staff expected redundancy; most, therefore, were delighted. Pam finally saw a ray of sunshine-- proper sunshine-- peeking into the tunnel of her life. Maybe she would paint more often now, show some pieces. With the severance money, she might finally visit Paris.

“It's a blessing in disguise,” she told the documentary crew with insincere dignity. “Actually, not even in disguise. In my fantasy, I always thought I would slap someone, make a big speech, then storm out forever. But this is good too.”

Of course, that blessing didn't last. Jan Levison from Corporate staggered into their office at the eleventh hour, her normally pristine hair ruffled, and delivered the most unwelcome news: Stamford was getting the axe, not Scranton.

Pam had no idea why Stamford fell upon its own sword, especially since Michael used to curse its boss, Josh Porter, for his sales figures. It seemed incredible that Dunder Mifflin's jackpot had imploded.

Through the window, Pam saw Bob Vance gesturing at thin air and mouthing the word “jackass”. Was selling refrigerators that stressful?

Maybe she should have defected, Michael's outrage be damned.

Oh well, she thought, as she trudged into Dunder Mifflin’s offices. At least she had a job, her mantra since Jan's visit. Bob Vance didn't need staff, anyway. With her depleted savings, she couldn't afford unanswered job applications and increasing desperation. As for a trip to Paris funded by severance, who was she kidding?

Besides, she didn’t want to work for a man so wedded to his job that his honest-to-God legal name was Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration. She already worked for a man so wedded to his job that he wrote a self-insert screenplay on premium letter stock.

So her work would not change.

The clock mournfully struck eight-fifty as Pam’s yawning co-workers shuffled into the office. First came the stocky Phyllis Lapin, wearing a flowery shirt, her allegedly brown hair set in a 1940s do, her mischievous eyes like currants. Curiously, Phyllis’ mouth was short and stern, all the better for sales. Many clients had been fooled by her mincing East Coast accent and knitted pink cardigans.

“Hey, Phyllis,” said Pam, “I love those primroses on your shirt--”

“Hey, Pam,” murmured Phyllis, staring at her fingers as she passed. Phyllis had been dating Bob Vance since at least December, and rumour had it that Vance was going to propose. If true, Phyllis would become a Vance Refrigerator.

Well, good for her.

The reception phone rang. Pam transferred the call to Phyllis.

Once upon a time, she had dreamt of marrying Roy Anderson, the one-time footballer she'd dated since junior year. Broad, dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, wiry brown hair, bleached Levi’s. What a thrill when he ambled to her locker and asked her out! Sure, that first date ended in disaster when Roy and his brother Kenny took her to a minor league hockey game, then called it quits while she was on the can. But after Roy grovelled in apology, she relented, and the rest was history.

Well, the wedding was off. Her decision, though at this time of the morning, she dared not remind herself why.

She needed coffee, but preferred to sit at her desk greeting sales and support staff. Call it ingrained politeness. She was used to waiting, had waited three years for Roy to set a wedding date, which he had finally delivered in a drunken haze of romance. June 10, a day that now lived in infamy.

Squeak! The door opened and Angela Martin, Head of Accounting and party planning, strutted in. A new thought struck Pam as she studied Angela's narrowed blue eyes and thin lips. Was Angela the one who turned the sun grey? Minus a broomstick and green face, Angela could have played Wicked Witch of the West with distinction. Her blonde ponytail swished to and fro like the tail of an angry cat—small wonder, since Angela owned at least four and had the same surly attitude.

Still, Pam remembered her manners. “Good morning, Angela.”

But Angela just raised a blonde eyebrow and passed by. Pam expected that; she and Angela often butted heads over whether Pam withheld faxes, why Pam’s colour palette for office parties were whorish, and why failing to bring chips and dip proved that Pam wanted to sabotage said parties. Yes, Pam expected Angela’s disdainful eyebrow, yet was disappointed by it.

Kevin Malone lumbered in. He had a long, puffy face, and thick brown hair dramatically receding from each side, revealing a shining egg top. His shirt was straining over his belly, and his grey jacket failed to close the distance. He worked in accounting, a giant underling to the petite Angela Martin.

Then Pam realised something: Kevin wore grey. She knew the shade, could mix it on her palette in a jiffy. Davy's grey, mixed with titanium white and a hint of black.

Perhaps Kevin was the culprit.

“Hey, Kev,” she said, trying not to sound suspicious.

Kevin mumbled, “Hello.” But a second later, Pam heard him say, “Is it me you're looking for?”

Ah. The accountant was wearing earphones, and obviously a Lionel Richie fan.

“Hello?” asked someone else. It was Dunder Mifflin's customer service agent, Kelly Kapoor. She was dark as chocolate, with sleek black hair and a severe fringe. Pam barely saw her face, as Kelly had a phone to her ear.

“I said hello?” shouted Kelly. She was Indian, yet sounded like a Real Housewife of Orange County. “What d'you mean I can't call you when we're both in the office?”

Naturally, Kelly didn't hear Pam's greetings. That disappointed her too. She had warmed to Kelly over the past few months. As soon as Kelly heard the Pam-Roy wedding was kaputt, and after circulating this news as far as possible (Pam received a condolence email from Grace at NY headquarters), the customer sales rep advised Pam to take heart. US Weekly and TMZ had all the answers, namely, rush back to the dating scene to make Roy jealous. Kelly had pulled her next-door neighbour Alan, out of a hat. “He’s a cartoonist! You draw, right? Isn’t that just the cutest?”

Well, the thought counted. But the date went up in flames like the Hindenburg, not least because Kelly dragged her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Ryan Howard along, pawed at him, and stuffed fries into his mouth. Meanwhile, Pam pretended to understand Alan’s high-brow satire and wished she hadn’t unbuttoned her shirt to impress him. Damn Kelly for her judgemental looks earlier, and damn Michael even more for giving her cleavage advice.

“Well,” said Kelly now, stomping towards her desk, “if you just picked up your phone once in a blue moon, I wouldn’t keep calling! What d’you mean you’re going to hang up?”

Believe it or not, Dunder Mifflin’s clients repeatedly awarded Kelly five-stars for customer service.

Pam's phone rang again. Another client for Phyllis. That reminded her of Valentine's Day, when Bob Vance showered his girlfriend in roses, chocolates, and a mammoth teddy bear, while Pam waited in vain for Roy to send even a card. Perhaps that was her reward for telling him not to get her anything too big; he took that to mean getting nothing.

Yes, perhaps she benefitted from joining Kelly’s online ASOS binges, rather than waiting for gifts. Sure, Kelly’s repeated “I totally love ASOS tops! You should try them!” meant she found Pam’s work cardigans and skirts frumpy, but hey, nice to have some after-work clothes.

Kelly also roped everyone into attending her Diwali bash, something Pam initially tried avoiding. No plus-one. (How sterile that word sounded, after years of being engaged!) But Kelly’s demands won out. Platters of naans, festoons of paper lilies, gorgeous Indian fabrics, ululating voices, twanging sitars, and some Beyoncé made Pam lose her inhibitions.

Oh, and later, Michael tried proposing to his realtor girlfriend. When that didn’t work, after misunderstanding Pam’s commiserations, he tried kissing her instead.

Good times.

All in all, Kelly, who lived in shades of Indian red, violet, and gold, would never turn the sun grey.

Stanley Hudson, an African-American salesman, barely glanced at her as he strolled in at eight-fifty-four. Stanley had the distinction of being not quite as portly as Kevin, his coiled black hair receding with less aggression, and his manner far less accommodating. He walked ponderously, lost as ever inside a Championship crossword. He too wore a grey jacket, and frowned as he trailed his pencil up and down the page.

“Eight-letter word, down, more sensitive,” muttered Stanley. “God damn it, I saw the bastard yesterday...”

Now if Stanley had his way, the sun would be as grey as his HB pencils-- and it would be doing a crossword. Fortunately, he lacked the imagination.

So Pam brightened up when she saw the next man enter. “Hey, Toby!”

Toby Flenderson was her last hope, a vanilla HR rep who lived in mustard, ochre, and tan suits. His sandy hair was receding strand by strand from his forehead, and he had a constant look of patient disapproval on his face, only transformed by a shy smile.

Alas, Toby was muttering like Stanley, in fact, muttering the very word Stanley needed. Why didn't Toby just speak louder? But he never did.

Brrring! The phone again, furious at being ignored. Pam transferred the call to Stanley's desk. Meanwhile, Phyllis emerged from the kitchen, holding a steaming mug.

Mmm, coffee...

But Creed Bratton had entered. Unsurprisingly, Pam got no response from him. Creed's face was lined and rough. His remaining grey hair stretched over his balding pate, and his mouth was crooked, just like his morals; Pam often saw him stealing odds and ends from people's desks. He spoke with a lisp, and always seemed flabbergasted that the sixties had long gone. Creed didn't bother removing his jacket. One or two of its buttons hung by a thread, much like Creed himself, a man surely too old for quality assurance.

Perhaps Creed had fed the sun with stinking mung beans he liked gobbling, turning it from white to grey.

The door opened with another squeak: Ryan Howard entered.

“Hey, Ryan,” Pam said in a subdued tone.

But the former temp ignored her. Ever since his promotion, Ryan Howard had started greasing his dark brown hair, and he had an oily smile to match. He tapped away on his BlackBerry, oblivious when he bumped into Meredith Palmer from Supplier Relations. Meredith had thick red hair cut short below her chin, a pasty complexion with rough and sagging cheeks. Her mouth turned downwards. She wore baggy cardigans and denim skirts, often concealing a bottle of spirits in her handbag. Today, from the looks of things, a mini Bacardi Breezer.

Unfortunately, the very next call was for Meredith. Pam wanted to advise the client, “Careful: Ms. Palmer might be tipsy this morning.”

God, she needed a coffee now.

But she stayed put.

In came the new sales staff, few of whom returned her greetings. Hannah Smoterich-Barr's dark brown hair covered her face as she cooed to her baby. Martin Ash, who resembled a Pennsylvanian Denzel Washington, glared at Michael Scott's office as he walked by. When shown to his desk yesterday, Michael had promised to show him “where the slaves work.”

Such tasteful jokes formed part of Michael’s Welcome to Scranton bonanza yesterday. Or, for sane minds, a glimpse into the psych ward. God-awful jokes, paper bags full of Number 2 pencils and coupons, smoked salmon entrées, champagne in plastic flutes, a rap video Michael filmed with Dwight, Haddaway sung a cappella, and, when all the above failed to warm the hearts of newcomers (a man named Tony Gardner quit in mortification after Michael and Dwight tried heaving him onto a table), puncturing everyone’s tires.

Yes, that actually worked: the entire office refused to speak to Michael afterwards.

Another new salesman, Andy Bernard, swaggered in. He had closely-cropped brown hair, a crazed smile and the teeth of an angler fish. He had a modest belly that he obviously liked, since he patted it and leaned back to make it even more prominent. His jacket was indigo, his tie a horrible clash of army green and cadmium yellow. Parrot meets scarecrow meets New York Fashion week, perfect attire if you wanted to copy Michael Scott’s lunacy for career advancement.

No, Andy couldn't turn the sun grey.

“Morning, Andy.”

But, like Kevin, Andy also wore earphones and was too busy singing, “He rocks in the treetops all day long, hopping and a-bopping and singing his song....”

Andy fancied himself quite the crooner, and had joined in with Michael's a cappella version of Haddaway yesterday.

Phyllis was now arguing with a client over delivery, and Pam heard Stanley grumbling every time the saleswoman fell silent. She heard Angela shouting at Kevin for spilling his M and M's “like a toddler”, and Kevin's slow protests in his defence.

Now Dwight Schrute appeared, pulling a face at Andy's retreating back. How to describe Dwight Schrute? He had a potato head, slightly balding. His hair was brown and grew in odd clumps like the hemp on his beet farm. Several strands hung over his forehead. He had bug eyes, framed with metal glasses, and a protruding mouth. His colour palette featured mustard shirts (yellow or Dijon) and mud brown suits. He had a long stride that said, “I am Dunder Mifflin’s best salesman. Don’t mess with me.”

After grabbing his messages, Dwight dug his fingers into the jelly bean dispenser.

“You took all the black ones again,” he said in his clipped voice, and left.

Pam shuddered, tipped the remaining beans into her trash can, and refilled the dispenser. In fact, she never ate the candy.

If Dwight had his way, the sun would be a glob of Dijon mustard-- or a beet. So, no luck there.

Oh well. One out of ten greetings wasn't bad. Add to that Dwight Schrute's accusations, and the soon-to-arrive Michael Scott, who never failed to say good morning, that would make a grand total of three people who acknowledged her existence.

She was just about to make coffee when something stopped her.

Jim Halpert hadn’t arrived yet.

Her heart beat faster, and she sat down unsteadily. Then she cursed herself for being silly and marched to the kitchen. Jim’s lateness hardly surprised her, and besides, former Stamford saleswoman Karen Filippelli hadn’t arrived either. Big whoop.

“So what if Jim’s coming?” she whispered, once back at her desk. Steam from her coffee mug tickled her chin. “And so what if he comes with Karen?

Angela Martin’s voice rose another octave from behind the partition that, thankfully, separated Reception from Accounting. “I forbid you from ever bringing M and Ms to this office again!”

“All right, lady,” came Andy’s voice in the middle, “Let’s tone it down a little—”

“—I’m serious! No more! Empty that jar!”

“No,” said Kevin.

Fortunately, the phone rang, and Pam transferred the call to Angela. The voices died down.

Nine-oh-three. Still no Jim Halpert. The coffee Pam had craved was going lukewarm.

Yesterday had been Jim's first day back in Scranton after several months working in Stamford. A day of utter bliss for Pam, who had woken at dawn to prepare. Yesterday, as the song went, all her troubles seemed so far away. The sun resembled golden syrup, beaming into her apartment as she tortured her frizzy hair into looser curls, smeared her lips with Maybelline, jabbed at her eyes with Elf’s pencils, and scavenged through her wardrobe for her cute grey sweater.

The sweater was a Christmas gift from her mother, and it fitted snugly. She had preened in the mirror, something she never did, for a good fifteen minutes, imagining how Jim’s eyes would pop when he saw her.

During the time that Jim Halpert, her one-time best friend (still her best friend?) worked in the Stamford branch, Pam reflected on the many previous instances where she had caught him staring. But in those halcyon days, she always pretended not to see. Now, after months of separation, she craved his regard.

Nothing could go wrong, she believed.

In the four or five months since Jim’s move, Pam had only spoken to him once, quite by accident. A call filled with laughter and unspoken words, or she thought so before texting him weeks later about Michael’s Diwali shenanigans. He never answered.

But after saving the Scranton branch, Jan implied that Jim would return, and Phyllis confirmed it too. In due course, Jim returned yesterday.

And everything had gone wrong.

So when Pam heard Jim’s unmistakeable baritone voice at the door today, her stomach jumped. Briiing! The reception phone rang on cue, but she didn’t move. She smelt Jim’s Old Spice cologne as he hung his coat on the rack next to her desk; she caught a flash of his striped scarf. Her fingers twitched. That scarf suited him, alternating blocks of Winsor and cobalt blue. So too did Jim’s black overcoat, making his shoulders even broader. She could hear distorted music from his earphones. Foo Fighters? Before Jim left for Stamford, he rarely listened to his iPod in the mornings. No, back then, he made a beeline for her desk with a smile that brightened his warm green eyes.

Now Pam was avoiding those very eyes-- until her defences collapsed. She looked up and smiled.

“Hey, Pam,” said Jim peremptorily.

Jim had darker hair, which flicked up over his ears, eyes, and neck. Pam fervently believed he never combed it, that he had never even heard of a comb. Jim’s blue tie was crooked, and the top button of his shirt always undone. His eyes were green like hers, but darker and flecked with gold. His nose was long and off-centre, which made him snort whenever he laughed. He was over six foot and slouched, one hand on his brown messenger bag. Pam could see his permanent five o’clock shadow, though he was clean-shaven. Was his chin rough like pine needles, or as smooth as his voice? It was, surely, too late to ask.

He had a crooked smile that always made his right cheek bulge, his smile of discomfort, incredulity, and embarrassment.

So it wasn't a good sign that he smiled that way right now.

“Hey,” Pam replied in a raspy voice.

And that was it. She waited for him to add something, like in the old days, but he merely crossed to his desk in long strides, hung his bag over his chair, and sat down.

Her heart dropped, and she valiantly returned to her computer screen.

Well, better than nothing.

Michael Scott was the last to arrive. He was of medium height, with dark brown hair combed backwards. His bushy eyebrows hung over green eyes, which were round like coins. His nose was sharp, his cheeks pinched. Without his crazed smile, he resembled a hawk; with it, he resembled a teenager trapped in men’s clothing.

What Michael lacked in manliness he compensated for in loudness, smacking the ledge of Pam's desk, letting out a high-pitched giggle, and bursting into unsolicited conversation.

“Hey, Pam? Not to boast, but… I’m rich. Like, really. I won a lucky jackpot last night.” Michael said this last part in a fake whisper.

Oh no. Pam clenched her teeth. Another Nigerian prince scam.

Everyone knew that if a Nigerian emailed you with tales of deposed kings, military coups, and the promise that you, dear reader, are the only one who can safeguard the royal fortune (provided you handed over your bank details), you dunked that email straight in the trash.

Everyone knew that-- except Michael Scott. Last week, Pam was lured into Michael’s office based on an “I’m rich” email (misspelled). Michael was leaning back in his swivel chair, both hands behind his head-- always a bad sign. The latest email on his computer ended with May I trust you to send me your IBAN in the strictest confidence? She had asked Michael, slowly, as though speaking to an errant toddler, whether he divulged his IBAN. Yes: of course he had. She then called Toby, who forced Michael to ring American Express and check recent transactions. Yep, said the helpful lady on speaker phone, you recently sent $250 to a King Adeboye.

It took careful explanation, plus Wikipedia searches, for Michael to accept that Nigeria was a federal republic that ought to imprison these “King Adeboyes”.

Had Michael still learned nothing?

Then Pam noticed today’s Michael Scott brandishing worn Lotto America tickets under her nose.

Lotto America? Well, that changed things. Suppose Michael had indeed hit the jackpot and, drawing on his quixotic nature, wanted to share the booty!

She could visit Paris! Giverny! The fat green lily pads! Art museums, art museums galore! Oh, and French food! Mmm, from here, she already smelled a croque monsieur from Café Constant…

“How much did you win?” she asked, her mouth watering.

“Six bucks!” said Michael, laughing in disbelief. “Can you believe that? Six bucks!”

For God’s sake. Pam wanted to laugh at Michael’s folly; instead, she felt like crying at her own. Without any further deference to her boss, she began typing an email to SKM Industries.

But Jim’s voice was distracting. Warm as honey, fit to ooze from the pores of radios and cassette players. Pam even imagined that Jim’s clients pretended to need paper, just to hear him speak. After all, Jim used to wonder why clients loved him for no apparent reason.

No apparent reason? Pam thought. Let me count the ways.

“You know what, Michael?” Jim now said, as the manager practically skipped to his office, “with your newfound staggering wealth, you could probably get a bachelor pad in Nigeria.”

Pam only just stopped herself from laughing. Glee felt wrong when Jim barely acknowledged her presence. But God, was his voice perfect for sarcasm.

Glee was wrong, and that near shout of laughter melted into pain. She and Jim shared the same thought about Nigerian scams. They often shared thoughts.

It took several minutes of staring at her cursor before Pam realised that she'd typed 'laserjim paper' in her email, instead of 'laserjet paper'.

She glanced at Jim, though she only saw his back. Ryan had claimed Jim’s old desk, which afforded him a clear view of Reception. For her part, Pam had tried downplaying her disappointment over this new arrangement yesterday. Today, she wanted to be grateful.

She didn’t succeed, especially since she could hear Hannah's baby wailing to her right. Dwight was busy rattling off a list of discounts to a customer.

Then her view was blocked by Karen Filippelli. The saleswoman must have entered alongside Jim, but Pam had been too busy staring at the latter to notice.

Karen brushed her hand down Jim's back. Pam flinched. She neither heard nor cared about Karen's equally sarcastic response to Michael's lotto winnings. Instead, she continued typing so fast that her spell checker underlined every word in red.

Karen Filippelli. Saleswoman and co-worker. She had mocha skin, green eyes and freckles. Everything about Karen was sharp, from her straight, chocolate brown hair with its side fringe; from her tweezed eyebrows to her burgundy lipstick. Her figure was sharp, dressed in equally sharp blouses and pants. She told clients over the phone to deliver contracts by eight sharp, complimented Dwight's jacket for looking sharp, and complained that the pencils Michael gave her yesterday as a welcome gift weren't sharp.

Pam stared at the HB pencils in her mugs. Many were blunt. She never noticed the cut of anyone’s jacket, and the hem of her own pencil skirt was fraying.

That sign that everything might rip took her back to last night in the chilly parking lot, where she'd told Jim it was “totally cool” for him to see someone. Nonsense, of course. He had a girlfriend, and the gods on Mount Olympus wanted that girlfriend to also work at Dunder Mifflin.

“You can do whatever you want,” she'd retorted-- in Karen fashion, even. Her words sounded like an accusation. Jim, with his black overcoat and checked scarf, had recoiled, smiling awkwardly.

It wasn't the first time that Pam had spewed careless words, only to wince as streetlamps exposed hurt in Jim’s eyes. She did the very same in May this year, in this very parking lot, with the same excuse: “We're friends.” Last night, she tried to soften the blow by adding, “We'll always be friends.”

She dashed to her Toyota Yaris afterwards, with a “Good to have you back!”

Then, she burst into tears.

But that was ancient history. Today, she had a pile of photocopying, and her damned telephone was flashing red. Voicemails.

“You have three unheard messages,” said the voice operator in disapproval. “To hear your messages, press--”

Click. Pam put down the receiver. She would handle that nonsense later. Sure, callers would be irate-- especially Stanley's client, Mr Richards-- but she had a ton of backlog from the company merger that would probably keep her until after five.

Sometimes she worked harder than anybody at this company and nobody noticed.

Why? She stared at the fluffy red bear sitting on her desk, as though it had the answer. But the bear just gazed back at her with its mournful black button eyes. She stared at her doodles of sellotape dispensers and staplers pinned to the ledge, and at the little pillow with the words “I love you”. The words brought a lump to her throat. She blinked several times and began a new email.

Back at Accounting, the War against M and Ms resumed.

“—can’t work with your stupid M and Ms everywhere! I don’t care about the partition!”

“All right,” said Andy, hopelessly, “maybe we can all...”

Tap, tap, tap. Pam found typing not only drowned out the petty argument, but also any feeling of isolation and abandonment. Briing! Briing! The phones again. She transferred a call to Dwight and immediately heard him begin selling 50% recycled paper. A sober Michael was asking Andy about the Dunmore Library account. Still, Pam kept tapping on her keyboard, scrolling with her mouse, and swinging in her chair.

Whoosh. Stacks of Fireworx paper stood to her right, next to trays of time-sheets, calendars, and forms. Her chair swung a full 180, revealing her printer-copier, stacks of Noise paper, trays, boxes, and framed teamwork and motivation posters. Whoosh. She spun back to face her desk. More paper, more calenders, message slips, enough pens and pencils to start a company, paperclips, sellotape, and God knew what else.

A shadow passed her desk. It was Jim, towering over the chunky white photocopier. His thick eyebrows were knit together in concentration as he pressed buttons. Beep, beep, beep. Pam liked the sky blue of his shirt, and his haircut, which was sharper than usual. More like Karen, one could say.

Noticing Jim was too natural; she was in the middle of cataloguing his traits before realising it. Jim always stood with one large hand on each side of the copier, as though holding the contraption together. His fingers were long and tapered. Fingers that felt glorious around her waist, tangled in her hair, or intertwined with her own.

Beep, beep, beep. She heard Jim mutter, lift the lid, then start pressing again.

In May, Jim had towered over her likewise, hands gripping her waist as he unexpectedly kissed her. Clumsy, passionate kisses on that fateful night when, out of the blue, he told her, “I'm in love with you.”

Pam's world had shattered. The rest of Dunder Mifflin was too busy gambling in the warehouse on Michael’s casino night, unaware that Jim Halpert was playing for the highest stakes.

In retrospect, she should have foreseen this. She, who spent three years insisting Jim was “just a friend-- her best friend”, while concealing butterflies, frustration, and longing. Friendship? What a joke. Angela knew it, so did Phyllis, and thanks to Michael leaking the news that Jim used to have a crush on her, even the po-faced Stanley used to give her sideways looks.

By casino night, she had lost her self-control. Over a game of poker, she wriggled in her seat, beaming at Jim, giggling at his expressions, daring him to take her all in. She teased him outside later, crowing about her victory and encouraging another lousy hand. And Jim stared at her and said, “I’m in love with you.”

Shock. Pure shock. Pam had scrabbled through her mind for responses: “What?” and “What are you doing?” and “What do you expect me to say to that?” She wore an engagement ring, had a wedding date. Roy was her high school sweetheart, her forever man, who took her parents out to Cugino’s. To throw that away for her annoyingly persistent attraction to Jim? Unthinkable.

But oh, how it wrenched her heart to see Jim’s head droop as he said “yeah” in such a defeated voice. She tried to salvage his crushed ego, reminding him that his friendship meant the world to her, but he rejected it. “I don’t wanna do that. I wanna be more than that.” What else could Pam say but “I can’t”? But no, she had to go even further, twist the knife even as she tried to soothe his pain. “I’m really sorry if you misinterpreted things. It’s probably my fault.”

Months later, Pam finally accepted that Jim never believed her denials. Even though tears glistened in his eyes, a sight that tore her soul, he knew she lied.

Pam stared at today’s Jim, fresh-from-Stamford Jim, still prodding buttons and becoming subtly irritated. Could he read her thoughts now, the same way he seemingly read her mind about Nigerian Prince scams?

She remembered what happened after Jim revealed his love. For what seemed like hours, she had stared unthinkingly at her engagement ring, twisting and rubbing it. Then she stumbled into the darkened office and called her mother using Jim’s phone. She never realised that until she saw his photos under illuminated by his desk lamp.

“Mom, Jim said something, and I don’t know what to do. He said-- he said that he was in love with me...”

As she had poured her heart out, Jim loped in, so quiet that she only saw him at the last minute. And before she could get beyond a “Listen, Jim”, he had kissed her.

Beep, beep, beep. Pam was brought back to the present when the office copier began gurgling.

Jim yawned. He never covered his mouth, something Pam found amusing and endearing.

Then Karen Filippelli appeared next to Jim, smiling. The saleswoman wore a sky blue shirt with white pinstripes. In fact, hers complemented Jim's own shirt. This early into their relationship and they already coordinated outfits.

“Hey,” said Karen to Jim. Her voice was husky, yet sharp.

Worst of all, Jim's mood changed. He stopped looking bored and smiled at the copier. Pam knew that smile. Jim was the consummate performer: he appeared calm when excited, expressionless when amused, restrained when delighted. Back in the days when he made countless trips to Reception, he guarded his true motives by smiling at her desk. Much later-- far too late-- Pam accepted that those smiles were only for her.

Until now.

Her stomach churned, threatening to spew her breakfast of cold toast and lukewarm tea over her desk. When she saw Karen brush her nose against Jim's shirt sleeve, she felt as though a Kraken might burst from her mouth and destroy the office.

Could Karen smell Jim’s fabric softener? Did she feel the strength of his arm in his deceptively lanky frame?

How Pam wished that Toby Flenderson would order Jim and Karen to stop this… display. No, they weren’t kissing, thank God. She had stayed up until one this morning, sniffling as she imagined Jim and Karen making out. She had sniffled all the way home yesterday, and while telling her mother last night that Jim had moved on, big deal. And now, if she didn’t look elsewhere, she might sniffle again.

Jim and Karen weren’t just together: they were quietly in sync, contented. When Pam spoke to him by phone months ago, she assumed that his increasingly affectionate tone betrayed how much he missed her in Stamford. But when he ignored her messages at Diwali, had he moved onto Karen by then?

Was it to find a new love that, one week after his love confession, Jim had upped sticks and moved to Dunder Mifflin’s Stamford branch without saying goodbye? For Pam only heard he had left Scranton when she arrived at the office the next Monday after casino night to find his desk clean and empty.

“He has defected, Pam,” Michael had said mournfully, with downcast puppy eyes. “I for one shall never speak to him again. It's like the Cold War. He's selling our secrets to the enemy!”

Pam barely heard Michael's other recriminations, for she rushed to the ladies' room and burst into tears.

All things considered, crying in her car last night because Jim had a new woman was better than snivelling in a toilet cubicle. No sound protection in the toilet.

Jim was still smiling as the copier gurgled in preparation. Over in the corner, Angela had begun a new line of attack against Kevin and his sweets. (“There are health and safety regulations!”) Michael was playing Chariots of Fire in his office and waving his arms like a traffic warden.

Pam turned to Karen again. At first, she hadn't understood. The sight of a friendly woman her age joining the Scranton branch delighted her. They'd hit it off right away. Karen, the sharp businesswoman, wanted to learn knitting.

It never occurred to Pam that she shouldn’t have embraced Jim when he returned, so overwhelmed was she by affection when he strolled in, chatting with Martin Ash.

It never occurred to her that she couldn't ask him out for coffee, much less flirt all night. She just expected to pick up right from May, that phone call where she left a million feelings unsaid. She craved a night with Jim, his attention, warmth, a night where she would erase the pain she caused and coax his arms back around her body.

But the Jim Halpert she treasured had disappeared. It was little things. No more grape soda from the vending machine, but bottled water. Jim claimed it was a phase. Getting a stick of Wrigley’s from Karen. He never chewed gum at work before. Joking with Karen about Bob Vance's job. Such blindness looked silly in hindsight, but yesterday, Pam only watched with increasing puzzlement and, later, hurt.

Jim's behaviour towards her had cooled. He quickly rejected her coffee invitation, brushed her off when Michael of all people apologised for interrupting, then left the break room.

“You're not interrupting anything,” he told Michael, with an awkward glance at Pam.

So she wasn't “anything”. Her radiant smile had vanished after that, though she'd later insisted to the camera crew that the day was going fine.

Only when Michael punctured everyone's tyres in a desperate unity exercise had Pam finally seen the truth. Karen, walking close to Jim, who was laughing.

Karen, rubbing Jim’s back.

A flash of light in the dark. Everything clicked. Pam had stared at the cameras in dumb shock. She didn’t remember how she made it back to the office, nor what she did for the rest of that day.

Those same cameras followed Dunder Mifflin’s staff today, and one of the men prowled near Jim and Karen. He smiled as he trained his lens on the couple.

Karen asked Jim, “Almost done?” The saleswoman barely repressed her laughter as she heard Jim’s paper sneaking out the copier.

“Just about...” Jim paused for dramatic effect. “...now.”

Pam was transfixed as she watched Jim remove his copies and give Karen a winning smile. She barely heard the copier buttons squeak as Karen pressed them, nor the click as the lid went down. She watched Karen smile triumphantly, and the more Karen smiled, the more Pam's head drooped until she was staring at her own screen instead.

How long had Jim and Karen been dating? Not long, yet she didn't believe Jim had chosen randomly. For years, Pam watched him drift in and out of relationships, flirting one minute, forgetting to call back the next. He only made an effort with her.

And she threw it all away.

Jim had clearly learned his lesson: Don't wait four years to declare your love, and don't declare it to an engaged woman. Now he moved to strike, winning over Karen Filipelli, a woman who obviously wouldn't tolerate delays on her coffee, much less a man.

Lucky for her.

Karen got to run her hands down Jim's chest. Karen could caress Jim's hair all she wanted; Pam only indulged that secret desire once in May, when Jim was kissing her senseless in this very office.

The only thing Karen couldn't have was an image of Jim leaning against the vending machine, swigging grape soda.

Jim got to move on, and Pam got the punishment. Minute after minute, watching him serenade another woman. As if determined to play his new role, Jim strode to Karen’s desk, holding a pricing list. Moments later, Karen laughed, called him an “ass”, and Jim returned to his desk, smiling.

He loves this, Pam thought, fighting against that roiling sensation in her stomach. He loves teasing her.

True to form, when Jim made a call, he swivelled his chair and smirked at Karen. Pam knew that sign too, the universal curtain call for a Jim Halpert performance.

“Yes,” said Jim to whoever was on the phone, “we would like an extra large shipment of paper for this orifice.”

Karen tried to look like she was above the schoolboy humour, but Pam had to fight another burst of laughter. That hurt. She pretended to type again, but the hurt grew deeper. Jim used to exaggerate his accent on phone calls for her amusement, like when he impersonated Michael Scott last Hallowe’en. She remembered how Jim’s thick eyebrows furrowed with pretend confusion, and how his green eyes were alight with mischief.

No more.

Just like that, Pam understood.

Jim had turned the sun grey. He had stolen the palette of colours he used to illuminate her life, from the hazel in his eyes to the sepia and burnt umber of his ties. He had stolen the Winsor violet of his grape soda, thrown it aside for water. He had stolen every memory, joke, whisper, and forbidden caress and given them to Karen Filippelli.

The sun was grey because she no longer heard Jim's watch ticking as he leaned over her desk. Nor could she see his strong hands and long fingers, let alone invent excuses to touch them.

It was so unfair. Men like Jim always got women like Karen. Why be surprised? The commercials and movies said so. Even if Jim loved Pam for four years, introducing a Karen would make him forget.

She gazed at her tiny black handbag, imagining it could carry the sum of her memories. Like her red bear-- but Jim called it sweet in January. The snow globe, perhaps, but Jim bought it for her two years ago because Creed forgot to buy her a Secret Santa gift. Not the jelly beans, as they reminded her of Jim's musky scent, strong arms, and long fingers. What about her favourite Papermate pens? But she only received those because Jim used to order an extra pack for her.

Pam blinked and grabbed a tissue. “Stop it,” she whispered, now opening Michael's schedule for next week. No use crying over spilt milk. Or the fact that aside from family photos, post-its, and doodles, almost every other trinket on her desk reminded her of Jim. She needed an exorcism.

All her independent memories truly fit inside her handbag, and then she would skedaddle. Her co-workers rarely noticed her anyway. No Vance Refrigeration. She needed an office block miles away, a drab workplace, a sane boss, and no Jim Halperts.

Now was the time to slap someone, like she'd dreamed of doing for years. But how could she slap Jim? She could make a big speech, but who would listen? She could storm out, but nobody would stop her from marching to an empty bank account and unemployment stress.

Here she was, and her she would stay, withering away at Dunder Mifflin with a grey sun shining over her wasted life.

If only she were braver, if only she had seized her chances. But her desperation for safety, comfort, and familiarity ruined everything. Now she was unsafe, uncomfortable, her world unfamiliar. Jim had tried raising her to truthfulness and boldness, and she refused.

No, Jim hadn't turned the sun grey.

She did that herself.