Page 100 of My Boss

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“Another illogical metaphor that does not reflect the actual state.”

“I’m not sure. To me, it’s obvious: you’re pale, you’re sweating, and your face is like you’re about to go into labor.”

“Again, an erroneous juxtaposition of words whose transference does not at all reflect my mood or my facial expression. Slow down.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” I press the gas pedal down.

One hundred and ten. One hundred and twenty. I look at Jan—his breathing is accelerated, his hand with white knuckles isholding the handle for dear life, and he has a thick oak log up his butt in place of the usual stick. He’s about to kick the bucket. I tighten my hands on the steering wheel, press the pedal to the metal. One twenty-five!

“Holy crap. This machine is a torpedo. What was your top speed when driving?” I say conversationally.

He answers nothing. He’s frozen.

“Probably eighty-five, according to the speed limit,” I state. “Now we are doing about forty above it. How does it feel?”

“It’s like we’re going one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour,” he says, all tense.

“So, how do you feel about it?”

“Like I’m breaking the rules. Slow down.”

“No. Tell me what you have planned for us for this coming week.”

“I won’t talk to you when you’re driving at this speed.”

“Unlike you, I have no problem with multitasking. You can speak. Where are we going to eat when we get there?”

“Nowhere. We’ll have dinner at my house.”

“Peachy keen. So I take it you know how to cook?”

“Yes. I am an excellent cook.”

“Modest as usual. What will we have?”

“Let’s see what products we can buy at the all-night store.”

“I like spaghetti Bolognese. Do you like it?” I glance in his direction and see that the paleness of his complexion is slowly giving way to a normal skin tone.

“Are you asking about pasta or sauce?”

“Uhh… spaghetti is, after all, pasta with sauce. How can it even be separated?”

“The pasta has its flavor. And the sauce has its flavor. The latter must be prepared solely out of fresh tomatoes.”

“We can’t get them at this time of the year. We will have to settle for canned ones,” I conclude.

“I avoid canned foods.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t taste good to me.”

“I see, and what else don’t you like?”

“Mixed dishes. I like each ingredient to be served separately.”

---