She couldn't believe that she'd come in to work, even. When she got home the night before, Roy was sitting in the living room, watching one of his stupid shows, drinking a beer. She told him that she felt extra tired, that it was the poker that did her in. She went to bed and laid on her side, thinking. She heard the buzz of the television and tried to quantify how much she loved Roy. Why would I want to leave? She was motionless until he finally got to bed at one. He tried to wrap his bearish arms around her, but she couldn't stand it. So she got up to go to the bathroom, and stayed there until he fell asleep.

She was distracted for a while by the usual onslaught of calls, beginning at 9 a.m., when she turned on the system. They were the less responsible clients, calling because they had run out of paper and needed to rush some over. When the calls died out at a quarter 'til ten, she looked for Jim, but he wasn't at his desk. She got up and went to the kitchen. He was alone, with his back to her. As she walked up to him, she lost her jitters.

Perhaps feeling her presence, he turned around and looked her over. She felt herself flush.

"Hey Jim," she said, with the contrast of a knitted brow and a great smile.

"Hey," he returned, his voice soft, quizzical.

Pam was comfortable, and though she was aware that everyone could see them in there, she wanted to touch him. She wanted so badly to feel the nape of his neck under her fingertips, to be pressed against him.

"I umm… I want to thank you for talking to me last night. I don't want to…"

Stanley walked in then and stopped, coffee mug in hand, to give them a questioning look.

"I have to get back to the desk."

"Yeah, see ya'," Jim said.

Stanley looked at Jim as Pam departed.

"Mmmhmm," he intoned, with his trademark look of incredulity. Dwight was the next to pass judgment on him. Leaning into the kitchen, he curled his lip and proudly pushed his glasses back onto his nose.

"Jim Halpert," he pronounced, "Michael would like to see you."

Dwight smirked, reveling in his assumption that Jim was finally going to get the axe, or close to it. He stood up straighter.

"Urgently," he said with delusional authority, pointing toward Michael's office, "as in now, Halpert."

When Jim arrived at his door, Michael sat slumped at his desk, with the air of someone who lost the biggest fight. Dwight was nearby, milling about behind the large indoor plant. Jim looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

"Come in," moaned through the door.

"Michael, you wanted to see me?"

Michael put his hand to his forehead in a gesture of grief, and peeked out at Jim from behind his hand.

"My day was going really well, Jim. It was…" he bit his lip, "perfect."

"Are you okay?"

"Close the door," he said, and waved at the blinds, "and could you close the blinds?"

"Sure."

Michael took his hand away from his face when the coast was clear, and Jim could see that his cheeks were wet. Michael quickly wiped them dry, and heaved a sigh.

"What did I do, Jim?"

"I'm not sure what you mean. Are you okay?"

"Oh, come on! I just got a call from Jan," he said, his voice getting uncomfortably loud, "who seemed happy to tell me, to 'inform' me that you are transferring."

Jim shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. He looked genuinely sorry that he had upset Michael so much.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he started, "but I've been kind of distracted."

"Yeah! Distracted about moving to Stamford," he spat out with a face that seemed as though it was going to lose control of any sense of stability.

"No, really. It's not you. I mean, I just realized that I want to have somewhere to go. I need to develop myself more."

"Why can't you do that here?"

"What would I be promoted to?"

"I could make something up," Michael said, his face relaxing somewhat. "Okay, maybe I couldn't. Jan would kill me."

"Right."

Michael was silent, and spaced out, seemingly examining his "#1 Boss" mug. He nodded his head, and seemed to be wincing.

"Do you think Jan is angry with me?"

"What about?"

"Well, you know… about Carol?"

"I think she was."

"Dammit, dammit, dammit."

"Don't sweat it," Jim said, with his mind clearly on something else. "All is not lost, man. You want me to open the blinds again?"

Michael shook his head.