AN: Something quick I threw together for a class, circa season 2.
Jim Halpert spits out a piece of old candy that tastes like the way washing machines smell. He gags a bit, swishes some coffee around in his mouth, then goes back to riffling through his desk drawer. Cleaning day at the office is always fun; everybody finds something. So far in his expedition, Jim has discovered a coupon for a free sandwich that expired in August (it's now late January) and a cell phone charger from two years ago.
Big day. And he hasn't even touched the filing cabinet yet.
"A wedding, that's so exciting. Can I be a bridesmaid?"
"Um…"
He collects a stack of old memos and taps the bottoms against his keyboard to even them all out. It should be just like any other trip to Pam's desk to get things shredded and plot their next office prank against Dwight, but as he goes to rise from his chair, he realizes something's up. Something's different.
"Look, you don't have to answer right away, but how are you gonna wear your hair?"
"Okay, I was thinking of bringing it down…"
Pam's always been really cute in her pink button ups and brown cardigans, tapping her colorless nails, giving him short glimpses of her teeth between voicemails and faxes, giggling, always talking just under her breath so she sounded like she was about to cry, she's just… cute. She always has been so cute. Always.
"…kind of like, loose with big curls…"
But it's different this time, because with her hair unclipped and her honey-colored coils down at her shoulders, shaping every blemish and every line on her face, her cheeks pink with heat, Pam is beyond cute.
Videos of kittens jumping around and getting into trouble, that's "cute." Babies laughing? Cute. The $2 Valentine's Day cards appearing on the store shelves are cute, sometimes.
Cute is infantile. Cute is childlike. "Cute," C-U-T-E, is a girl. Jim's mouth goes dry. Pamela Beasley is no girl.
Pam is warmth. Pam is the sand in your toes and the sun on your back. Pam is the space you inhabit between the couch and the comforter on a rainy day. Pam is a bonfire in the middle of summer. Pam is the first big gulp of hot chocolate that you feel falling into your stomach. Pam is the rain that makes a swimming pool feel like a bath tub. Pam is a scarf that isn't really all that great but means a lot because it was made just for you. Pam is an anonymous compliment. Pam is that new pair of striped socks you didn't need but looked comfy enough to sleep in. Pam is sleep, deep, dreamless sleep. Pam is the afternoon and the stars at night and the dawn that follows. Pam is the sun. No wedding dress could hold the light, the goodness, the heat coming off that woman.
Woman. Yes, that's the word.
"You'll look like an angel. I'm seriously gonna cry."
An angel… that works, too. Pamela Morgan Beasley, the angel beneath the veil.
She drops her chin to her chest with an embarrassed grin and Jim feels his own lips turning up into a mostly involuntary smile.
She is so gorgeous, he remarks to no one. His stomach tries to leap up into his chest as he goes to stand again, to bring her the ancient memos for shredding and maybe make an off-hand comment about her hair in passing ("it's nice," he imagines he'll say, like he's really not all that intrigued, as if she doesn't radiate beauty from her every pore), but his back end firmly cements itself to the office chair as he catches Micheal in his peripheral vision, standing just outside his office door with a shit-eating smirk and an empty cup of coffee. Oh no.
"Wowee," he says, stepping closer. Oh no, oh no, oh no. "Mikey likey."
Jim sinks back into his seat and watches the scene unfold with a storm pure horror raging in his head. Already Kelly has backed off, looking at her shoes, pretending nothing's happening, and already Pam's smile is gone, her face stone cold. They all know what's coming, and no one has time to brace for it.
"Why don't you wear your hair like that all the time?" Micheal asks, sounding nonchalant, not realizing his mistake because he never does. "It's much sexier."
He's such an idiot. He's such a great, blundering idiot and he doesn't even know it. To Micheal it's just a simple compliment – just being nice, friendly, jokingly hitting on the secretary because that's what bosses are supposed to do. He just doesn't get it. He never, never gets it, and Jim's teeth tingle watching Pam's hands get to work tying her hair back up, the way it usually is. The cute way.
As Micheal passes Jim's desk on his stride to the break room, Jim hears him mutter, "Wow, this must be torture for you."
And it freezes Jim with a strong mix of feelings that damn near make him go comatose, because Pam is getting married, but not to Jim Halpert, and no one has a clue how cold that makes Jim feel, except Micheal Scott, the world's worst confidant.
It's over much faster than it began, and the office is quiet, and Jim dumps the memos into the recycle bin, and bites down on a piece of hard candy that tastes the way winter would feel if it felt like anything at all.