A tomato on a tablecloth. Your face, sun-scarlet from a beach weekend, appears to float above your crisp white monogrammed shirt, starched collar, cufflinks, and yellow power-tie with little red swords raised at Ninja angles. It’s a look you have cultivated for years. You expect to go to meetings and answer calls and "lead the troops" the same way you did last Friday when your face and shirt were of a hue. Inside, you are the same Dragon of Development, sending peons scurrying with a pointed word, scuttling projects with a memo, berating tears from your fifth secretary in nine months.

You defy convention by not choosing a Friday afternoon to fire Mark, whose sin is that he refuses to bend to your ego. He is in your office Tuesday morning, across from the fire-faced Dragon, the tomato-headed tyrant, staring at the glow between your neck and collar. He looks carefully at the patches of peeling skin, wanting to brush off the flakes that hang by a few cells. He can almost feel the heat radiating from you.

You make him wait because you can. You shuffle papers and check your Day-Timer and make a note or two for the secretary. Your adrenaline builds and he waits until you are ready. Phrases like "team player" and "unmet expectations" line up on your tongue. The Ninja tie feels real. This will be good.

"Get some sun?" Mark asks.

You blink, touch your peeling nose, nod. He smiles. In the reflection of the framed Picasso behind him, you see yourself as he sees you, rosy red and heated. Conquered by the sun.

Vulnerable.

Clown-like.

You open your mouth but the phrases have defected, and you wonder how long it will be before you can call Mark into your office again.