“Tuna fish. I hate that smell. How can you eat it?” Myrna asks. She leaves the kitchen and returns with a can of lemon-scented Lysol.

“You can’t spray that in here. I’m allergic.”

“Tuna! I can’t stand that smell!” she hisses at me.

“I don’t smell anything,” I respond.

“That’s because you’re eating it. I’m going into the living room.” Myrna stomps away cursing at me under her breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as I inhale the tuna salad made Southern style with mayonnaise and relish.

“Place the container in a white plastic bag and hang it on the door knob!” she shouts. “Not the red. That’s my favorite.”

She had told me over the phone, “I bet I’m your craziest client.” She was, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of saying so. The first day I worked for her, I found an uncashed check for $10,000 under a stack of books.

I open the front door, and instead of the door knob, I place the knotted bag on the brown frayed door mat. When I return to the kitchen I gag at the scent of lemon. Sneeze a couple of times. The taste of lemon-scented Lysol coats my lips.

“Are you OK?” she asks.

“No, I told you I was allergic.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

“I’m leaving now,” I announce.

“What? We haven’t finished. Are you going to leave me with all of this clutter?”

“Yes.”

I pick up the white bag, place it in my backpack and walk out. At 82nd Street, I ascend the staircase to the train and squeeze into the tightly packed train where everyone smells like tuna fish.