Tuna Steak Night (a short story)
This one originated as a writing exercise focusing on subtext-- suggesting an unspoken conflict without saying it overtly. The second person PO isn't my go to. It just suited these last two stories.
It took one bite of the tuna steak to blow apart the vague visions of something rib-eye-esque I’d been holding in my head. My teeth sunk into that over-tender, purple block of mush and the one thing that should have been obvious from the outset, immediately struck me.
Raw Fish.
Now, I’ve seen Lou Reed play at Beacon Theatre, I’ve read Emil Proust’s full back catalogue. There aren’t many people who would guess that this is the frontier I’m yet to tackle. You always loved a guessing game though, didn’t you?
Don’t deny it. You planned this dinner out like a bank heist—springing this dish on me, playing on all of my little hang ups, knowing full well I’d never admit to being a tuna steak virgin. God, if only I’d clocked your smug little smile just little earlier…
“Do you like it?” you asked.
I issued you with a thumbs up as I blinked back tears. Why didn’t I start off with a smaller bite? You leaned forward and rested your chin on your hands with your lips pursed. I’ve gotta admit, the lipstick you wore that night had me looking up from my plate more times than I can remember doing in at least five years--and that’s not just on account of the tuna steak.
“Really?” you asked with a tilt of the head. “What other exotic delights do you enjoy that I don’t know about?”
Assuming this was one of your ‘spice things up’ exercises from Lady mag, I waited till I’d well and truly gulped down that sea-purge before answering. I took the tall water glass in hand and sipped greedily.
“I dunno…” I crunched up my nose and thought for a moment. “Did you know I’m a bit of a dark-horse on the Tango floor?”
You rolled your eyes. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have expected you to answer that one. I guess anyone who’s ever seen me down more than three beers, has experienced my Tango routine first hand. I did expect you to at least crack a smile though. The way you pulled your lips in all small like that—as if to inform me, you wouldn’t let a grin slip through even if it wanted to—left my throat stinging.
“No really,” you insisted, “Is there anything?”
Suddenly, my Tuna looked a whole lot more appetising than before. I sliced off a small corner and held it mid-air on the end of my fork. You raised your eyebrows.
“It’s funny to think, kids raised on the coast eat this sorta thing every night,” I said, staring up-close at the skewered flesh. I inhaled that second piece without letting myself taste it. I wonder if other people have the ability to do that? I can kinda just turn my nose off when I need to. Doesn’t do anything for the texture, but it beats that raw salty taste. I remember almost asking you this question out loud, but realised last minute, it would blow my cover.
“Kids are an interesting thing to bring up right now,” you said. Not tapping your foot, but looking like you wanted to. Those lips of yours didn’t look quite so good anymore. Sucked together so tight I could see the lack of blood flow through your lipstick. You took a sip of wine and somehow left no trace on the rim of the glass.
I shrugged. “I mean the only wild thing our kids ever ate is the Wolf Burger from Wendy’s!”
You know when someone thinks you’ve taken the last piece of chocolate out of the cupboard and nothing you can say will convince them otherwise? That’s what that damn dinner felt like. You absolutely devoured your tuna steak between interrogation attempts, but that’s no different to any other meal, is it?
Alright I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there…. I’m just a bit worked up. After all our years together, to have you accuse me like that, it makes me so—
“If you’d prefer to live a life on the coast, you know you could always…just move,” you said.
You could always just move. Didn’t even cross your mind to throw in a we there did it? Not on that night. Nope. Your mind was made up. I swallowed more than just tuna when I heard that line. My knife and fork clanked against the plate as I stood up. But by the time I’d made it around to your side of our kitchen table, you were already in tears.
Red face, slobber, shaking shoulders, worst of all--angry. At first, I was angry as well. But by the time our skin touched, it just hurt. Like deep in my throat. See right here? Yea, that’s the spot.
If you’d refused my hug at that moment, I’m not sure what I would have done. Thank God, you let me in. That’s why I asked you to come along to this thing, Suz. I know it’s weird. I know this is unnatural as fuck to have me describing one of our Saturday dinners as though you didn’t live through the bloody thing. But it seems like the only way we can do it at this point.
I’m not going through another Tuna Steak night. I’m just not going to do it.
Very clever