Page 30 of Loathing My Boss
My mouth opens; nothing escapes my tongue.
I need a reason to be crying. I need alie. A believable, untraceable lie.
Despite the vast, detailed fantasy world I was just exhaling into the nothingness, my mind is quite useless in falsifying a reason for tears. It closes all its tabs. A tumbleweed blows through the wrinkles, which are being moisturized away.
Head empty.
No thoughts.
Smooth brain.
Lotioned.
Slippery.
Like afish.
“My…fish,” I blurt, recalling that if you get pulled over, you’re supposed to cry and apologize and say your dog just died. People deaths can be fact checked. Pets, not so much.
I do not have a dog. I have afish.
Or as far as Viktor gets to know now, Ihada fish.
Every muscle in Viktor’s body winds. Panic shoots through his eyes. “No,” he whispers, viscerally unwell. “Please.”
Um. What?
Why, pray tell, does this man care about my fish so much? I’ve mentioned Potatooncein two years. It’s, also, a fish. You know. The least sympathy-inducing of all the pets?
Will I cry and contemplate throwing myself into traffic once my time with Potato is up? Yes. Do I expect more than an awkward shoulder pat from even Crimson? No.
Viktor looks like he’s about to throw up.
Suddenly, it seems the wrong kind of cruel to continue with amyfish is deadplan, so I choke back my emotions, dry my eyes, and murmur, “He wasn’t eating. Crimson just texted to let me know it only took him a second to get used to her, and he’s okay now.”
Do I know what I’m saying?
No.
Puffers are so vicious they will slay most things with very little prompting. Potato sees his blood worms and spaghettis them before I get a chance to coo how cute he is.
Viktor’s palpable relief washes over me like an ocean. His eyes close as his entire being sags. “Oh, thank goodness…”
I don’t know what to say. Kaleb has an elaborate andlavish koi pond that I visit regularly, but Viktor has never professed to be all that interested in the fish. I, obviously, love them and was chatting with them when I discovered that Kaleb wasn’t just a gardener but rather the Bachelors’ fifth, secret brother. To my knowledge Viktor has never even visited Kaleb’s koi. He cannot be a fish guy. “Areyouall right?” I ask while thoughts and reason continue to escape my lotioned brain.
Swiping a hand up his trim stubble toward the pale scar that cuts down his right brow, he nods, sinks into the chair at his desk, and opens his laptop.
He’s not really lookingall rightto me.
“Your neck is feeling better?” I ask as he puts on his reading glasses.
“Yes,” he states, clears his throat, murmurs, “You must…really love your fish.”
Yeah, duh. It’s my fish. What I want to know is whyyoureally love my fish.
I think I almost witnessed a breakdown five seconds ago.
Clearing my own throat, I open up Viktor’s email, then begin sorting. “Well, you know,” I offer, detached, “his name’s Potato.”
