Page 104 of My Boss

“Butter.”

“It’s definitely not butter.”

“What are you talking about? After all, it says, ‘Delicious butter.’”

“It’s not real butter.”

“What?”

Jesus, is he suffering from paranoia? All the food manufacturers want to fool him!

“Real butter contains more than eighty percent milk fats and zero vegetable fats, which means it should be made from full-fat cream,” he explains in an academic tone. “Yours has sixty-two percent vegetable fat in its composition. I can assure you that it will not taste like butter because it is not.”

“Fine, have it your way.” I take the stick from his hand. “Should I go and put it back, or are you going to continue making a fool out of me and treat me like I can’t read?”

Jan looks at me, surprised.

“You are not stupid.”

“I know, but after your nutritional teachings, I feel like I am.”

“That was not my goal. I wanted to ensure the quality of your purchases.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I’m an adult and can bear the consequences of my consumer choices.”

He frowns. He analyzes my words.

“So I shouldn’t have pointed out to you that these products are defective? Would you rather not know that this bread is not rye, the eggs will expire tomorrow, and the butter is not real butter?” he asks quite seriously.

I close my eyes; I take a deep breath. I’m hungry as hell (and I really have a fucking desire to smoke!). I wish I had already eaten something and rested after the trip.

“I don’t think I’ll die from the caramel in the bread, and I’ll make apple pie for dessert from the eggs and butter.

“I don’t eat pies with fruit. I prefer apples separately and cakes separately.”

“Today you will make an exception. I’ll have the dinner you will prepare, and you’ll have my dessert. Do you have anything else to buy?”

“Two peppers, four carrots, seven mushrooms…”

“Then be quick and get me about four and a half pounds of apples. I’ll be waiting for you at the checkout.”

I put the products in the cart and walk away. On the way, I grab cane sugar and soda. Just as I approach the counter, my gaze falls on a display of cigarettes. Nicotine hunger stabs me in the very center of my solar plexus and tempts me: “Buy them! Buy them! Go and buy them! Light one up, come on, light up, take a drag…”

I glance into the aisle to see if, by chance, Jan is lurking somewhere nearby and ask the young saleswoman for a pack of ciggies. I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m doing something wrong. My heart is beating fast, I keep looking to see if Jan is approaching. The woman puts the pack on the counter. I wince because she couldn’t have chosen worse. The packaging features a photo of a woman spitting blood.

“Can I have that package with the sleeping man?” I point to the display behind the girl.

She smiles with understanding, and I already know that she smokes herself. Only a smoker can smile that way at a smoker. High-five. She puts the ciggies away and reaches for another pack.

“No, not the cancer guy.” I shudder at the sight of an older guy with a tube in his larynx. “I’ll take the handsome one on the gray sheet.”

“The one with the heart attack?” She laughs, takes the pack and puts it on the counter, and I immediately hide the cigarettes in my purse.

“Also, a pack of mint and fruit gum.”

“Which ones?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

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