Rude Boss

“Because you’re always here.”

“Always?”

“Well, not always, but you just seem to pop up suddenly. Do you do this with all of your new hires? Particularly women?”

He takes another sip of the drink and I nearly gag at the sight of him doing so.

The waitress brings over the food and after she makes sure we’re set, she tells us to enjoy our meals and goes about her business.

Mr. DePaul says, “No, I do not do this with all the new hires.” He takes a bite of a taco and moans. “Mmm…this is good.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“Right now, I want you to eat. These tacos are delicious.”

There he goes being bossy…

I take a bite because I’m hungry and sweaty. I should’ve taken a shower after working in the apartment this morning, but he showed up and ruined my plans. I was going to have my first meal in my apartment, sitting in the middle of the living room floor beneath the ceiling fan, dreaming about what kind of sofa I wanted. I already knew the color scheme – just needed some couches to go with it. And curtains. Lamps. End tables. Rugs. The whole shebang.

I can’t focus on that right now because he’s here and these fish tacos are delicious! I don’t think I’ve ever had any with so much flavor. So well-seasoned.

I glance over at Mr. DePaul and watch him obliterate his second taco. He eats like a caveman, but somehow he manages to be neat about it – taking his time to dab the corners of his mouth, sip his disgusting drink and repeat.

“Tell me about your parents,” he says, still avoiding my question on why he’s doing what he’s doing.

I ask, “What about them?”

“Are you close with them?”

“They’re in their sixties and climbed two flights of stairs to see me get set up in my new apartment. Yes, we’re close. What about your parents?”

“We were a lot closer when I was—” he pauses. I see a slight frown on his forehead when he continues, “When I was younger.”

I don’t want to engage him any further regarding the frown or his past. I hate to pry. It’s not my business to know anything about this man’s relationship with his parents, but for some inexplicable reason, I feel like I want to know.

He says, “Life is never easy. We live from one day to the next, but we never know when it’ll all end. It could be today. It could be tomorrow. It could be a month from now.”

I raise a brow. “This is too deep of a conversation to be having at lunch—or dinner—whatever this is.”

“You don’t like deep conversations?” he asks, his eyes beseeching mine.

“I do—a lot better than small talk, but you just came out of left field with that one. Death is not a conversation anyone wants to have.”

“Right.” He sips water this time. “These tacos are good, eh?”

And there he goes again, bouncing around from one subject to the next, but at least he’s off the subject of death.

“Yeah, they are.” I wipe my mouth and say, “So, tell me the real reason you showed up at my apartment today.”

He dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin, looks at me, parts his lips to speak, then hesitates for a moment. Another grimace comes. He confesses, “I think I need your help.”

I almost choke. I could not have heard him correctly. No way. Why is my mind deceiving me?

But he looks so serious…

Shaking my head, I reply, “There’s no way the man who has everything needs me for anything. You can go on somewhere with that.”

“Who says I have everything?”