tunaFishTuesday

Author: Liza C.

E-mail address:

liza_cameron@yahoo.c

Title: Tuna Fish Tuesday

"Donna!" There it is. The bellow. I knew it was

coming. How could I not expect it? Not two minutes ago

I dropped off his lunch: tuna fish on whole-wheat-- with

fat-free, no-sodium mayo, of course-- with some raw

vegetables on the side. Delicious! I know. But I predict

the problem is going to be that he asked for a

cheesesteak with fries.

"Yes?" Once I'm standing in his doorway, I lean against

the door jam nonchalantly and open my notepad as if

I'm prepared to jot down some vital instructions of

extreme governmental import.

"What's this?"

I push off the door and come to stand across from him.

Peering over the cluttered desktop, I survey his personal

disaster area. "Looks like the vetting files for the new

Deputy Secretary of the Interior."

"Not that." His voice is tight and tinged with

annoyance. Doesn't he know by now that a little bit of

attitude from him won't faze me? "This!" He points to

the offending box from the deli.

"That appears to be a sandwich. For future reference,

the way you can tell it's a sandwich is that it consists of

two pieces of bread with meat in the middle." Yes, I'm

sassing him. I sass my boss. Don't you?

"This is not meat." He grimaces at the box and then

shoots a glare in my direction. He's so cute when he

glares. That may sound like an odd thing to say about a

man in his 40s, but it's the truth.

"Sure it is."

"Donna…" Uh-oh. The whine has made an appearance.

I'm prepared for that as well.

"It's fish. Fish is meat."

"Not by my definition." He shakes his head, before

looking up at me with pleading eyes. "Why? Why would

you do this to me? Aren't I a good boss?"

"No comment on the latter… and you know why." I fold

my arms across my chest and level my best no-

nonsense stare at him.

"No, I don't." His voice is much softer now and he's

futzing with the sandwich, lifting up the bread and

inspecting the tuna with a pronounced frown. But the

most important thing to note is that he won't meet my

eye.

"Yes, you do."

We're silent for several long seconds before he breaks.

"Medical records are personal, you know. You could go

to jail for reading mail not addressed to you."

A-ha. He does know why. I knew he left the results for

me to find, but I'll play his game. "I could go to jail for

reading the results of your cholesterol test? Which you

opened and left in your outbox?"

"I didn't mean to. I just set them down. How was I to

know where the outbox even is… look at this desk." He

gestures to his hopeless mess. I really need to organize

it. It's been… oh… all of four days since I last went

through the wreckage. Honestly, I could see where he

wouldn't know where the outbox begins or ends, but I'm

still not buying it.

"Yes, well, you did and I read them. And it's a good

thing, because your cholesterol is sky-high and your

triglycerides are off the charts." Now my hands are on

my hips. We both know he left the results where I'd find

them, and we both know why. He doesn’t do a great job

taking care of himself, and he knows I'll force the issue.

"It's not that bad." For some reason his flippant tone, at

this moment, pushes my buttons. My heart starts to

race and I begin to feel my own anger boiling over. How

dare he not take this seriously.

"Sure… it's not that bad… until one day after arriving

home after a typical sixteen-hour workday, you'll pull

open the fridge and start eating some greasy leftover

sesame chicken right out of the carton. As you're

standing in the kitchen, the first thing you'll notice will

be a tightening in your chest. Then pain. Pain like

shooting daggers, right up your left arm. Next, you'll

have trouble breathing, and because you're you, you'll

ignore the warning signs. You'll assume its indigestion,

or aches and pains from a long stressful day at work.

But it won't be, and before you know what's happening,

you'll be on the floor. Alone. Sesame chicken spilled

everywhere. You won't be able to get up because it will

feel like a two-ton bank vault is sitting on your chest.

And you'll die, Josh. Just like that. You will DIE. Of a

heart attack. And I won't be there to help you. But I'm

here now and that's why I brought you the DAMN TUNA

FISH SANDWICH!"

Josh is just staring at me, his eyes wide and his jaw

slack. Oh my God. What did I just say? And why did I

say it? And why was I so intense? I was shouting there

by the end. Immediately, I spin around so that my back

is to him. There are tears burning behind my eyes. My

throat is dry and I feel a tad bit dizzy. I gulp several

times and flutter my eyelashes to keep from actually

crying.

Since my back is now to him, I hope he won't be able to

tell how near tears I am. Yeah, I know… he knows.

Taking several long slow breaths, I will myself to calm

down. Only a few moments pass before I feel a hand on

my shoulder, but I don't turn. If my face looks at all like

I feel, I can't let him see it. I just can't.

"Donna…" His voice is soft. I resist when he gently tries

to turn me back towards him, but after a few attempts I

relent and we're face to face. He has a hand on either

of my shoulders. It's warm where he touches me, but I

don't allow that little detail to distract me. Refusing to

meet his questioning gaze, I stare directly at his light

blue dress shirt and count the stripes on his blue-and-

tan tie. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course." Swallowing hard, I make every effort

to present a recovered front and eventually raise my

eyes to his. They're brown and warm and… is that

caring I see? "I…I just…" Stuttering, I search my brain

for some credible justification that I can give him that

will explain away my outburst. "I just… it's just that I

need this job, and if you die then, well, I'm probably out

of work."

I try to force a smile on my face, but his expression is

still solemn and serious, and it's painfully obvious that

he sees through my facade.

"Donna, I'm fine." I just raise one eyebrow at him.

"Really I am." I just keep looking at him so he

continues with a nod to the desk. "I'll eat the

sandwich." Even as he acquiesces, he sees that I'm

relatively unmoved by the small victory. Sighing, he

concedes, "And I'll take my diet more seriously. We can

have Tuna Fish Tuesdays every week if you want…"

"And boiled skinless chicken on a bed of spinach

Wednesdays?"

"I hate spinach." But he's grinning at me now.

"That's why I was breaking you in with the tuna."

He actually chuckles. "We can talk about it."

I nod before asking, "What else?"

"What else? What do you mean 'what else'?"

We stare at each for several more long seconds.

Neither of us has broken eye contact and I'm not going

to blink first. Finally, he squeezes my shoulder and

gives in. "And I'll go to the gym more often, and do

what the doctor says."

"Okay." Satisfied, I sniff and back up one step, and he

drops his hands from where they'd been on my

shoulders. Suddenly, there's a weird awkward silence

happening. The reason that's its weird is that it's very

rare for us. We're hardly ever silent, and when we are,

it's not awkward. It just isn't. Frankly, I feel a little

emotionally drained after my outburst. Maybe I just

need to get out of there. There's candy at my desk. I

need some candy. He can't have candy, but I can. I

motion to his desk. "You should eat; you've got that

meeting with Hamilton in 20."

"Right." He nods, gives me one final quizzical look as if

he's trying to figure me out, and makes his way back

behind his desk. I pause a moment before heading for

the door. Just as I'm past the doorway, he calls my

name. Slowly, I turn back. He's staring at me with an

unreadable expression on his face.

"Yeah?"

He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry you were upset… but

I’m glad… really glad you worry about me."

I press my lips together for fear I'll get emotional again.

We stare at one another for a long uninterrupted

minute. I have no idea what to make of the look in his

eye. It's not the normal way he looks at me… but it's not

bad. Nope, it's not bad at all. Finally, I shoot him a

weak smile and turn to go back to my desk. Yes, I

worry about him. But it's only because I'm concerned

about my potential job loss if he dies. Seriously. I

swear.

You're not buying it, are you?

The End.