Give Me Back My Tuna!

The email landed in Arthur’s inbox at precisely 10:37 AM, a stark white rectangle against the corporate blue UI. The subject line: “Regarding the Refrigerator Protocol.” The sender: HR.

Arthur sighed. Another passive-aggressive memo about unlabeled containers or expired yogurts. He clicked it open, already drafting his mental reply about the general lack of respect for personal space in the communal kitchen. But this wasn’t about a forgotten yogurt. This was about his tuna.

It had started subtly. A slight shift in the weight of his lunch bag, a feeling in his gut that something was off. Arthur’s tuna sandwich wasn’t just a meal; it was a carefully constructed culinary opus. Flaky white albacore, perfectly mixed with just the right tang of mayo, a whisper of finely diced celery, a hint of black pepper – never salt, the tuna provided its own oceanic kiss. All nestled between two slices of his grandmother’s rye bread, lovingly toasted.

The first time, he’d blamed himself. Maybe he’d eaten it yesterday and forgotten. (Unlikely. Arthur never forgot a tuna sandwich.) The second time, a week later, a primal whisper of suspicion began in his brain. Today, however, the theft was undeniable. The empty, meticulously wiped-clean Tupperware sat mocking him on the lunchroom counter, next to a single, solitary rye bread crust, the distinctive diagonal cut unmistakably his. The bread itself, the soft, yielding heart of the sandwich, was gone.

Arthur stared at the crust. It was a declaration of war.

He tried to be reasonable. He really did. He took a deep breath, counted to ten, then to twenty. He considered sending an office-wide email, polite but firm, about respecting boundaries. But no, politeness hadn’t gotten him his tuna back.

He started with notes. Handwritten, increasingly agitated notes, taped to the fridge door:

Dear Colleagues, please ensure you only take items that belong to you. Thank you. – A.
My tuna sandwich has gone missing. Again. This is not a joke. – Arthur.
Whoever is taking my tuna: I know what you did last Tuesday. And this Friday. – A. Pendelton. (Yes, my full name. I’m serious.)
GIVE ME BACK MY TUNA! My grandmother’s rye bread! The celery! The CAPERS! (Yes, I sometimes add capers, a subtle briny burst!)

The office buzzed with speculation. Brenda from receivables swore she saw Gary from marketing eyeing the fridge suspiciously. Gary, in turn, pointed the finger at Penelope from accounting, claiming her always-immaculate desk had a new, faintly fishy aroma.

Arthur, however, was a man on a mission. He began his covert investigation. He noted who lingered by the fridge, who averted their eyes when he walked by, who seemed to have an inexplicable craving for mints after lunch. He even installed a tiny, almost invisible, motion-activated camera – disguised as a plastic owl – overlooking the fridge. (HR would have a field day, but Arthur was past caring.)

The footage was grainy, but undeniable. At precisely 12:15 PM, on three separate occasions, the culprit was revealed. It wasn’t Brenda, or Gary. It was… Mildred from HR. Mildred, with her sensible shoes and her penchant for memos about “Refrigerator Protocol,” was the tuna thief.

His tuna. His carefully constructed, emotionally charged tuna sandwich. It was a violation on every level.

Arthur printed three stills from the owl-cam footage, each one depicting Mildred, her hand hovering, then clasping, then retreating with his precious Tupperware. He laminated them. He then marched down the hall, the crisp click of his office shoes a drumbeat of righteous fury.

He found Mildred at her desk, typing away, a half-eaten sandwich (not tuna, insult to injury) beside her keyboard.

“Mildred,” Arthur said, his voice dangerously low, “we need to talk.”

Mildred looked up, smiling politely. “Oh, Arthur. What can I help you with?”

Arthur laid the laminated printouts, one by one, on her desk. The first showed her opening the fridge. The second, her reaching for his Tupperware. The third, her walking away, a satisfied, albeit furtive, look on her face.

Mildred’s smile faltered. Her eyes darted from the photos to Arthur’s face, which was now contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated tuna-based rage.

“Arthur, I… I don’t know what these are…” she stammered, betraying herself with every word.

“These, Mildred,” Arthur hissed, leaning in, his voice a barely contained roar, “are the receipts. These are the chronicles of your gastronomic larceny. This is the evidence of your betrayal of the sacred lunch pact.”

He paused, gathering every ounce of his indignation, his voice rising to a crescendo that made the intern at the next cubicle visibly jump.

“And now, Mildred,” Arthur bellowed, his fist slamming gently on her desk, rattling her coffee cup, “I want one thing, and one thing only. I want you to look me in the eye and… GIVE ME BACK MY TUNA!”

The office fell silent. Every head turned. Mildred, pale and defeated, slowly pushed her half-eaten sandwich away. “Arthur, I… I’m so sorry. I just… it looked so good. And I was so hungry.”

Arthur stared at her, the fight slowly draining from him, replaced by a profound, weary sadness. “It was good, Mildred. It was perfect. And you never even asked.”

He picked up the single rye bread crust from his desk, still perfectly diagonally cut, and then, with a heavy heart, placed it gently on Mildred’s desk, right next to the damning evidence of her crime.

“Keep it,” he said, his voice now a strained whisper. “A reminder of what you truly lost.”

Then, Arthur Pendelton, a man truly wronged, turned and walked back to his desk, leaving a stunned Mildred, a bewildered office, and the lingering, almost spectral aroma of a perfectly constructed tuna sandwich in his wake. From that day on, Arthur brought his lunch in a small, locked cooler. And Mildred started bringing her own tuna. Though everyone knew, it was never quite as good as Arthur’s.