“A foot-long meatball sub with provolone on a honey roll, please,” I recited my order to the teenage pink-haired girl with a septum piercing as if I had been ordering it since leaving the womb.
“We’re out of provolone. Is swiss okay?”
I wasn’t prepared for this question. Just like how I wasn’t prepared for seeing Marta again. Or for ending up in a run-down Subway in a sketchy part of town instead of at home, eating ordered-in Chinese and watching the latest episode of Transparent with my aging cat.
“Ummm…yeah, that’s fine,” I stammered.
I found a spot in the back of the restaurant and set my blue tray squarely on the shiny bamboo tabletop before reaching into my pocket for the folded up note. It was now covered in tire tracks and smelled a bit like oil. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
(…to be continued)