Page 110 of My Boss

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I’m a genius! And I don’t mean my mathematical abilities. I’m a genius of persuasion. As we sit side by side on the bar stools, and Jan begins to separate the baked apples from the dough with a fork, I suggest that he at least taste a whole bite of the apple pie:

“Just a piece. To have a taste. If you don’t like it, you can spit it out.”

“I don’t want to.” His is a definite answer.

“Why?” I’m already devouring a second helping at an express pace and taking an extra piece. The pie is delicious. Maybe I could add it for free to every sold piece of furniture?

“I already told you, I don’t like mixing ingredients.”

“So, when was the last time you ate apple pie?”

He thinks for a moment.

“Thirty years, seven months and eight days ago. It tasted awful.”

I laugh, covering my full mouth. God, what a man.

“So you were eight years old.”

“Eight years, three months and two days,” he specifies.

“And don’t you think your taste buds may have matured a bit since then, not saying anything about the rest of your body?”

He doesn’t deny it (which I see as a good sign), but continues to scrape the bottom of the pie, pushing away all the apples.

“You’ve never had apple pie like this, I assure you. Try just a little, fortune favors the bold. I swear that if you don’t like it, I’ll leave you alone.” I am pushing him to the limit. “Otherwise I’ll pester you for the rest of our stay in Szczyrk.” I put another piece on my plate.

“You won’t have anything to pester me with. If you keep up this pace of getting extra servings, the pie will be gone in forty-two minutes.”

“Then I’ll make another one. I still have five almost expired eggs and half a packet of fake butter left.” I grit my teeth. “Try it, please. Just a little bit.”

“Maria, give it a rest.” He scoops up a pile of baked apples onto one half of his plate, while the other half holds dry dough.

I put a small portion of my serving onto a fork and lift it toward Jan.

“Please, pretty please. I have worked so hard. I put so much heart and work into preparing this apple pie.” I make sheep’s eyes at him. “It would mean a lot to me if you tasted my pie. Can you do it for me?” I stare at him imploringly.

But he looks into my eyes implacably and says, “No. Besides, eating with the same fork is unhygienic.”

I burst out laughing.

“Jan, your tongue has become familiar with my tongue, pussy, and ass. Do you really think sharing a fork will be less hygienic than this?”

A murmur escapes from his throat. He narrows his eyes.

“Open your mouth, Jan, and I guarantee I’ll make use of my own in return. And I’ll do it any way you want it.”

“The way I want it?” He looks at my lips.

“Absolutely.” I move the fork closer to his mouth.

“So we have a deal.” Jan leans slowly toward me and takes the pie from the fork to his mouth.

BULL’S-EYE! He has fallen for me, hook, line, and sinker. I watch him move his jaw as he swallows. I don’t see an expression of revulsion or delight on his face. He simply ate, period.

“And how did you like it?”

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