No Deal
"Come on," Cal wheedled. "Every damn day y'come here with the best lunch, an' every day we all slog through stale peanut butter and cold soup while you're enjoyin' gor-may on-trays. Least ya could do is trade somethin' once in a while!"
Pausing in the act of unwrapping his sandwich, Shawn cast a glance at the older man. "So bring something else if you want a change. Nobody's stopping you."
"Well, see, that's just what my wife says," Oscar exclaimed, plopping his lunchbox on the table and sitting down across from them. "She figures if something she slapped together isn't good enough for me, then I can just feed myself." He winked at Shawn. "Most of us aren't still enjoying that first year of marriage, when everything is love an' kisses an' fancy lunches every day."
Shawn colored slightly, but said nothing.
"And she knows I can't cook, too," Oscar went on, with the air of one enjoying an old gripe. "Some people say they'd burn water; me, I'd burn salad. So it's what she makes, or the cafeteria... and anything's better than the cafeteria." He laughed heartily at that, then took a large bite of his own sandwich.
"Yer a lucky bastard, Shawn," Cal said with a grin. "A bastard who won't trade lunches, but still lucky."
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