Near the pavilion, there stood a double sized tent where local restaurants set up booths to serve their food. It worked as good advertising for the restaurants and saved the museum from having to hire a caterer, as well as providing me a place to get some breakfast. Jim insisted he buy me something even though I assured him it was no big deal. He persisted until I gave in, letting him buy me a fried egg sandwich and a small coffee. He ordered a coffee as well and when our server placed one cup down on the counter we both reached for it, our hands brushing against each other.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean…" he started.

"Whoops, you can…" I said at the same time.

We both recoiled our hands and laughed uncomfortably. He handed me the cup of coffee, "here, go ahead." My food and the other coffee were ready a moment later.

The Food Tent, which was what the museum staff was calling it, had a dozen of so long tables, each with an assortment of folding chairs so that people could sit down and enjoy their meals. Jim pulled out the closet chair to us and offered me the seat. "We can do the interview here if you like," he said.

"Actually, I can eat and walk if you'd like to take a tour of the park," I said, before taking a sip of coffee. I was a shy person by nature, but being in public relations for the last few years had helped cure me of my fear of meeting new people, especially reporters, though currently I felt that old anxiety creeping back. I figured that it would be easier to walk and talk about the subject I loved most instead of having to be face to face with a man whose attractiveness had caught me so off guard.

"Oh, sure," he replied, a little unsure as he pushed the chair back in.

I led him out of the tent and to the main path, which wound farther into the park. Art from local artists filled each of the many tents in the park, the art separated by various themes. Besides all the art tents, there was the Food Tent, a medical tent, a small section in the corner of the park reserved for venders to sell homemade handiwork and the pavilion, where the assorted events of the festival were going to be held. I explained all of this to Jim as we walked and I finished off my breakfast. He didn't write anything down, only nodded in the right places as he nursed his coffee.

The first tent I took him to was filled with abstract paintings. As Jim began to look over the paintings, I began my rehearsed spiel about the history of the festival and museum that I usually give to reporters, most of whom were usually happy with the generic dribble that I gave them. Jim was different though. He wasn't asking any questions, which was atypical of any reporter I had ever met. I was hard pressed to believe he was even listening because he had become so immersed with the paintings, studying them carefully, as if to uncover some secret meaning behind them.

I continued to chatter on about the festival for a few minutes longer, mostly because I'm a habitual rambler when I'm nervous. "Am I going too fast?" I asked when I became convinced that he hadn't heard anything I said. "I'm not boring you, am I?"

Jim tore himself away from one of the larger canvases. "What? No," he said seeming to snap out of it. "You were talking about the activities the festival was having today. I just- I think this art is fascinating. I mean, I don't think I understand any of it, but it's kind of cool. Like this one," he said as he pointed the painting he had been looking at. The canvas was completely white with the exception of a blood-red number six painted over a large black seven that was positioned in the upper right hand corner. The acrylic paint had dripped half way down the canvas, distorting the numbers a little. "What does this even mean?"

"Actually," I started taking a deep breath in, "this red six is to symbolize the six days that God spent creating the earth and the black seven symbolizes the day off. It's a religious statement about how we do not appreciate God on that seventh day and how our lives, no matter how much we sacrifice, as noted by the red coloring, will be bleak and dreary, hence the black, if we do not find a place for God. It's somewhat of a controversial piece because the Eastern religions have a different, contradicting interpretation of the numbers six and seven, not to mention that the color schemes would be different."

He listened carefully, eyes widening as I continued to explain that the dripping of the paint symbolized the destruction of humanity. He stared back up at the painting as if it would give him an answer to some unknown question in his head. "Wow," he said when I had finished, "all that in this simple painting? So, is the reason the numbers are in the corner reflective of God's position to the rest of us?" he asked, proud that he had come to his own conclusion.

"Could be," I shrugged my shoulders and flashed him a grin. "I just made it all up." He laughed at his own gullibility and for the first time since we met the awkward tension that had been plaguing us seemed to dissipate. "The piece is called 'untitled'," I said referring to the small card beside the canvas. "It could be referring to a card game for all I know. Art can be, and usually is, subjective Jim, you take out of it whatever you want."

Before either of us could continue, I saw someone from my past out of the corner of my eye. I had the tiniest of suspicious that he would show up but hadn't expected it to be so early in the week. I wanted to run, my instinct telling me to get out of there, but he was blocking the tent opening and there was no other way out. With none of the canvases being big enough for me to hide behind, I grabbed Jim's jacket and buried my head against his chest. "Don't let him see me," I said quietly.

Jim, unprepared for my actions, quickly became confused and wasn't sure how to respond, "Who?" he asked, I could sense that he was looking around, but I kept my head low.

"It's my ex-husband," I whispered, "please, just cover me up." The whole thing was a bit childish, I knew that, but Roy and I had parted on less than friendly terms and I had hoped the months without contact would have given him a hint that I did not want to see him.

Jim hesitantly put one arm around my waist, another around my shoulders, careful not to hold on too tight, and dipped his head down over mine as if he were a consoling lover. I grasped his jacket tighter and buried my forehead further into his work shirt. I could hear his heart beating rapidly. "Do you see him?" I asked.

"I don't know what he looks like," Jim answered.

"He's the big guy, short haircut. He's wearing that black and blue spandex suit and looks like he just got back from the gym." I explained. I could only see Jim's white shirt and feared lifting my head up in case Roy should see me.

"Oh, I see him," Jim finally said, his grip on me tightening. One hand reached up to cover my head protectively. "He's looking around," he commentated, shifting me in a semi-circle to stay out of view. I was a bit panicky and I breathed deeply, trying to calm my self down, in the process taking in Jim's scent, which was a refreshingly sweet smell of vanilla. "Alright, he's gone," Jim said, slowly releasing his grip.

I looked up at him, noting the kindness in his eyes. "Thank you," I uttered. Roy was known for his poor confrontations skills and had he saw me, there was no doubt there would be another yelling match, another scene. The day started well and I did not intend to let my past ruin it for me. "I, um, haven't seen him in months," I owed Jim some sort of explanation. "And I really wasn't up to revisiting that."

"Um, no problem," He said, unsure how to properly respond to my actions. I realized I was still clutching his jacket, so I let go, patting his jacket to straighten out the wrinkles. I thought he would ask about Roy, but he didn't. Instead, his eyes shifted to a spot on the ground and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

* * *

When I was with Roy, we lived in a self-absorbed bubble. The effort that it took to maintain such a struggling relationship and marriage preoccupied so much of my free time that there were casualties, namely my friendships. I never had a lot of friends in the first place and the ones I did slowly faded away into their own lives, leaving me secluded in a life consisting only of Roy, work and occasionally family. I had attended art school while with Roy, but the friendships never stuck.

The divorce was liberating on an incredible amount of levels, but I didn't take into account how lonely it would be on my own. My contact with other people had dwindled to work related and calls every week from my mom. The promotion to head of public relations, I was only assistant to the head of PR prior, came not long after Roy and I had separated. The divorce was quick and I delved into my work, submersing myself in it so that the void of not having a relationship would be filled. I loved my work. I loved art. But that didn't stop the nights from feeling empty.

The festival being my first SIA event coordinated on my own, I had little previous contact with the press. Most reporters, all of whom had worked for the local TV stations, I dealt with so far were kind enough, but even the ones that specialized in arts and culture never asked more than their pre-conceived questions and were soon on their way to more interesting stories.

So, Jim, joking, laughing and talking with me, like a normal human being, was a breath of fresh air. The normal professionalism that distanced interviewer with interviewee had been stripped away, leaving two people chatting about art in an informal way. The standard reciting of facts about the festival had been dropped along with my initial intimidating concept of the unapproachable handsome journalist. Jim was very laid-back, which made it so easy to converse with him.

We continued to walk around the park, looking at all the artwork. I had been so busy planning the festival that I hadn't taken much time to see what had been entered. He hadn't asked too much more about the festival itself, so I figured he had enough for his story, though I hadn't seen him write anything down. I didn't press the subject because I was having too much fun goofing around with him and worried that if I mentioned his story had finished that it would put an end to the meeting.

Jim currently had taken the notion of explaining untitled artwork as a game, so he decided to test it out with every untitled piece that we came across. There was an unspoken challenge between the two of us to see who could be the most creative.

"This one looks like somebody's mouth and their teeth have liquefied and are now draining down their throat," I said referring to a drawing that was made up mostly of pencil squiggle marks in the shape of what I thought looked like the profile of a human head. I knew many of these artists personally and respected them, but it felt good just to stand back and evaluate in a less academic manner.

"Hmm…Spontaneous Dental Hydroplosion," He suggested. He was becoming much more animated as the game continued and I was amazed at how quickly he was able to come up with the names.

We moved on to the one beside it, which was also untitled. The canvas was full of small, square, grayish, penciled blobs. "I know," I said thinking fast, "The Killer Nano-Robot Epidemic," I said raising my fists in the air, happy to get one before him.

"Nice," Jim said laughing, "That one was good."

"'Cause I am good," I joked, shrugging my shoulders. He beamed at me and I was happy that I gained a new friend.

* * *

"Oh my god, Pam." We had just exited one of the tents when Jim's eyes grew wide, "it's Dwight."

"Who's Dwight?" I asked curiously.

He pointed to the strange looking man with glasses that was walking up the path towards us. "He's one of my coworkers," Jim explained, "and he's literally the strangest human being I have ever met. He's just so- Well, why don't you meet him and find out for yourself."

"Jim!" a sharp voice called out as Dwight approached us. He had a stern look on his face. "What are you doing here? Are you also here to experience the fine craftsmanship of local art genius Joe Spitoto? Fact, not only are Joe Spitoto's works exquisite in their beauty but they are also the physical representation of the theory of time travel. I have questioned him extensively about his quests through time, but he won't return any of my calls."

Jim grinned and I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. "I'm here for work, Dwight," Jim responded.

Dwight, disappointed, began to look around wildly, "I don't see Karen here," he observed.

"She's on vacation," Jim answered, "she's been gone all week, how have you not noticed that?"

Dwight only frowned, "well, in that case, I should be going." He turned around and started to walk away.

"Watch this," Jim whispered to me. "Actually, Dwight, I'm undercover," he said as if it were no big deal.

Dwight immediately spun around and came close to Jim, "Undercover? Is this a secret story? Is this part of…what we talked about earlier?"

Jim was momentarily confused, "Oh, no, this is something bigger." He dropped his voice down a little, "something much, much better."

Dwight glanced around to see if anyone was watching, "well, what's the story?"

Jim eyed him suspiciously, playing his part well. "How do I know you aren't going to tell anyone?"

"Jim, we formed an alliance," Dwight stated in disbelief, "don't you remember?"

"Right, right," Jim said, looking around carefully, "ok, the big story is…art thieves."

"Art thieves?"

"Art thieves."

"Dammit Jim, do your really expect me to believe…"

"Shhh," Jim said putting a finger to his lips and pulling Dwight a little closer. "They might be listening. They don't know I've been tipped off."

"Who?" Dwight asked completely captivated.

Jim scrunched his nose, "the art thieves."

"Oh, right, well then," Dwight stopped, noticing me for the first time. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly, his beady eyes zeroing in on me.

I wasn't sure what to say, "I'm Pam Beesly, I work for the museum…"

"Ok, that's nice," Dwight cut me off. "Is she safe Jim?"

I decided to jump in on the fun, "Oh yeah, where do you think he's getting his information from?" I asked, "I mean, I work in PR and what better bridge between the museum and the press is there than public relations?"

Dwight nodded, interested, "alright, continue."

Taking my lead from Jim, I looked around suspiciously, lowered my voice to a whisper and spoke slowly, "Ok, I heard, from my anonymous source, that last night two men were planning on coming here to specifically searching for the works of Joe Spitoto so they could crack the code of time travel."

"Oh my god," Dwight said, his face going white, "if they got their hands on those paintings they could go back in time and destroy the universe in a paradox."

I nodded intently, "Uh-huh."

"What are we going to do?" Dwight asked, pulling at his hair, frustrated.

"No, Dwight," Jim said simply, "what are you going to do? I think this is too far out of my hands. Only you can save the universe."

"Right, right, you're much too inferior anyway," Dwight rubbed his chin and Jim gave him a side-ways glance. "I'll have to go get my spud gun from the car."

"No, no, no, no," Jim said seeming worried that Dwight would do something drastic, "You have to go to the paintings now and guard them. They could be coming any second and who will stop them if no one's there?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Pam and I are going to walk the perimeter, keep our eyes open," Jim assured him.

Dwight seemed satisfied with the answer, "Alright Jim," he nodded very seriously, "then this is goodbye."

"Goodbye, Dwight." Jim said dramatically.

Dwight took off running, veered off the path and hid behind a tree. We could see him poke his head out for a moment, trying desperately to be conspicuous, but failing. He took off, when he thought no one was looking and ran behind another tree.

"Wow," I said, trying to comprehend what had just went down.

"I know, crazy huh," Jim didn't seem like it was anything out of the ordinary. "It's getting too easy. I need a new challenge. Oh, and awesome job coming up with the whole Joe Spitoto and time traveling thing," Jim complimented, holding up his hand so we could high-five, "that was amazing, Pam, really amazing."

"Thanks," I said, glad that he was so impressed. From the distance we could see Dwight attempting to use fighting moves against a squirrel. "Um, he's not going to do anything to the art, is he?" I still had my job to consider.

"Oh, no, he'll be fine," Jim brushed it off. "He'll stand around for an hour or so then find something else to distract him. He'll manage to bug a few people claiming to interrogate them, but I doubt any major damage will be done."

"So, an alliance?" I teased.

"Um, yup," Jim responded slowly.

"Do you guys have a secret fort somewhere, too?"

Jim looked around, pretending not to hear me. "Uh, what's in this tent over here?"