Fatty tuna.

Genre: Comedy
Location: Auto body shop
Object: Chop sticks.
Word limit: 1000 words

Fatty Tuna
Two kindred spirits find love across a dirty boulevard.

I met Miyumi after the adult bookstore closed down. And yes, I know how romantic that sounds.

Most of the neighborhood was happy to see Night Shade go, my father included. Personally, I felt they provided a legitimate service, and having made a few late night trips myself across the boulevard, I found the place surprisingly user friendly.

Plus, as co-owner in our family business, my philosophy was “Pervs need their cars fixed just like everybody else, so why not here?” We never trademarked that line, but I had seen enough customers slink over to Night Shade while we fixed their transmission to know we had tapped into an odd niche.

Then, practically overnight, the dirty bookstore became a Japanese restaurant.

“What the hell is a bento box?” my father hollered from the sidewalk. Social grace was not his strong suit.

I almost said “Let’s hope the pervs like it.” But Pop lived in denial about our customer base. I wasn’t about to disturb his innocence.

“I have no idea. Let’s go try it.”

He grimaced. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself, old man.” I had skipped breakfast. I was going.

I crossed the boulevard into the afternoon sun. The owners had clearly invested more in signage and display than Night Shade, whose one small sign now leaned upside down against the parking lot dumpster. Behind it, a life sized in-store display had been flattened, awaiting the recycling truck. It featured an actress with enormous breasts dressed as a Vegas showgirl. Her outstretched arms seemed to be beckoning customers into the new restaurant’s parking lot.

In front, a string of red lanterns hung from a simple black awning. A freshly painted sidewalk sign advertised authentic Japanese specialties. And in the main window, still tinted dark for maximum discretion, gold-foiled letters spelled the name Miyumi.

Inside, the transformation was even more impressive. Fluorescent lights had been replaced with giant rice paper orbs that gave the room a warm glow. The indoor/outdoor carpet was gone, revealing natural maple floors. Small black lacquered tables dotted the room. A large glass display showcased colorful cuts of fish. And there, behind a small counter, sat Miyumi.

I blurted. “Domo. Arigato.”

Sometimes, in an attempt to be charming, dumb things fly out of my mouth. She smiled, in that obligatory “the customer is always funny” sort of way.

“Would you like a table? Or just a menu?”

“I saw your sign out front. How’s the bento today?”

She smiled again. She had beautiful teeth.

“I think you’ll like it.”

I gestured to the display case.

“This looks interesting.”

“My father buys it all.” She leaned toward me. “He’s a little high strung, but he knows his fish. Do you like sashimi?”

I stared, deer in the headlights.

Before I could lie, she took a pair of beautiful black enamel chop sticks, picked up a piece of plump white fish from inside the case, and offered it to me.

I knew if I tried to take the chopsticks out of her hand, there would be spillage or some other sashimi related disaster. It seemed there was only one way to do this.

As I opened my mouth, she placed the fish on my tongue.

I play back this moment in my head all the time now.

“It’s fatty tuna.”

Okay, not the sexiest line ever spoken, but I was hooked.

On sashimi. And on Miyumi.

We soon discovered we had tons in common -- both in business with stubborn fathers and both left motherless fairly young. Our conversations, and our mutual attraction, happened naturally.

Unfortunately, nothing came naturally between Miyumi’s father and me. To call our first meeting disastrous is an understatement. In my nervous attempt to find common ground, I complimented Tomo on how well he had transformed Night Shade. No sooner had I spoken than I realized that all my detailed knowledge of the former porn shop didn’t make me seem smart. It made me seem like a regular.

For weeks afterward, the only sound I heard from Tomo was his cleaver pounding hard into wood. It was hard not to imagine each slice aimed at my various appendages.

Miyumi assured me that Tomo would come around, and I just needed to be patient.

Since I also couldn’t imagine my father doing handstands over my new Japanese girlfriend, Miyumi and I tried to keep our relationship under both of their paternal radars.

So you can imagine my horror the day when, after one of our “secret lunch dates” I saw her father, in his starched white chef jacket and mine, in filthy coveralls, chatting away in front of our shop. They were a study in contrasts. As my stomach churned and I waited for the first punch to be thrown, my mind reeled at what on earth Tomo could be saying to Pop.

“I’m sorry about your boy’s pornography habit.”

Or maybe

“Please keep your grease monkey son away from my daughter.”

Fortunately, the conversation soon finished. Tomo crossed the boulevard, passing right by me. He didn’t have his cleaver handy, or I’m sure he would have waved it in my direction. Instead, he shocked me by looking up and giving me a single head nod. It was something.

When I returned to the shop, I found Pop reviewing some invoices in the back office.

“So…I saw you talking with our new neighbor.”

“The Oriental fella?”

“Pop, you have to stop using that word. Only rugs are oriental now.”

“I can’t keep track. He seems nice enough, though. He sure asked a lot of questions about you. So I asked him what kind of dowry he was offering. That shut him up.”

“Pop! I was embarrassed and irritated at the same time.

“That was a joke, son. Lighten up.” As he walked off, he added “Frankly, you could do worse.”

And just like that, with two, begrudgingly given, passive aggressive blessings, Miyumi and my secret relationship stepped out into the light.