Condiments

mustard

mustard

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I entered Subway at 9:58 pm that Thursday, two minutes before closing.

Under ordinary circumstances, I never would have done it. When I walked in, there was one lone girl standing behind the counter. Keys dangled from her hands, her stained black apron cast to the side, and her mouth hung open as if I had stopped her midsentence.

It killed me as I shuffled towards the counter. I hung my head in shame, letting the wavy, blonde hair I desperately needed to cut create a veil around my face. I was such an inconvenience, as usual. The world's latest last minute customer. If only I hadn't forgotten to pack a lunch for the play, the whole situation could have been avoided.

A stifled laugh seeped into the air. I looked up and met her eyes. They were chestnut brown and sparkled, like the glowing embers of a log resting in a fire. The animosity I was expecting wasn't visible, but it was most likely hidden behind her fake amused demeanor.

"Welcome to Subway. Are you ready to order?" she asked.

I replayed her words in my head, searching for any underlying sarcasm, but couldn't detect any. "Yes, I'm ready. I would like a six-inch sub on whole wheat bread."

She plucked her apron off the hook, put it back on, and tied her thick, black hair into a frizzy ponytail. "What kind of sub will this be?"

"Turkey, please," I muttered.

"Any cheese?"

"No."

"Do you want it toasted?"

"No."

I watched closely as she took the time to fold each square piece of meat straight down the middle, and then placed it onto the sandwich like adding pieces to a puzzle. After she was done with the turkey, she scooted over to the condiments section.

The colorful array of vegetables and sauces pummeled my senses. The vibrant red of bell peppers looked appealing and the sour scent of relish wafted into my nose. The temptation was too much. I thrust my trembling hands into my pockets to prevent myself from pointing at all the options.

"What else do you want?"

I inhaled and exhaled deeply. The urge was strong, but it was no longer unbearable. "Just cucumbers."

She grabbed a handful of the fresh fruit and propped them on top of the meat. "What else?" she asked.

"I just wanted cucumbers. That's it."

Her fiery eyes immediately dimmed. "That's it?"

"That's it."

She stood there and looked at me. It wasn't an accusing or concerned look, just one full of curiosity and contemplation. After several seconds of her scrutiny, she finally asked, "Type One?"

I froze. My fingers became numb. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to take on a renewed, vicious edge, pinpointing and highlighting my every flaw. "What?"

"I'm assuming your Type One since you're on the thin side," she said.

I glanced at my frail body. At best, I could be described as lanky. At worst, a walking twig. My physical description varied from person to person. A pitying relative would say slender. A football player would say skeletal and wimpy. Immediately, I regretted wearing my fitted theatre t-shirt instead of my usual flannel plaid button down. It was an expert at hiding my muscle-less frame.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Know what?"

"That I have it."