Condiments

hot sauce

hot sauce

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I walked into Subway at 9:55pm the following Thursday. I meant to arrive exactly at 9:58pm just like when I first met Karen, but I was too excited and nervous to wait three whole minutes. Because this time, I had a sandwich for her.

“I have a present for you, Type Two,” I announced as I strode up to the counter.

An elderly woman wrapped in an oversized, woolen shawl glared at me. “Excuse you, young man! I was here first. Wait your turn. The nerve of young people these days!”

Karen laughed and I smiled because I loved her laugh.

“Excuse you, young man, but this patient woman was here first. Step back, sir! Wait in line!” she yelled, false alarm dripping from her words.

The woman beamed at Karen, took her sub, and shuffled out of the store, not without sending me a look of revulsion first.

“What’s up, Type One,” she asked.

Dramatically, I spun around and dropped a tinfoil package directly in front of her. It contained a sub with a condiment that she hadn’t given me. I even took the time to make up a deep meaning for the condiment I chose. The pride I felt was probably extremely apparent on my face.

She prodded the present with finger. “Let me take a wild guess. It’s a sandwich?”

“Yes. And, I also have a blindfold, so you can’t see the sandwich when you taste it,” I said, pulling a blue bandana out of my pocket.

A smirk appeared as she tied the blindfold around her head. I waved my hands in front of her eyes to make sure she couldn’t see.

“No peeking,” I demanded.

“Okay.”

Slowly, I unwrapped the sub and placed it in her hands. Karen lifted it to her mouth and took a large bite. One second later, the half-chewed food was on the floor.

“Ugh, was that hot sauce? I hate spicy food!” she cried, flailing her arms.

“What do you think it signifies?”

“I need water!”

“No, that’s not it.”

“I know that’s not it, but I need water!”

“Guess first.”

“It hurts! My tongue is burning!” she complained.

“Just guess and I’ll help you,” I said.

She stopped panting long enough to guess. “Hot sauce hurts, so all the pain you’ve ever felt.”

“That was a pathetic guess,” I sighed.

Somehow, she found my arm while blindfolded and punched me. I handed her the bottle of water I brought just in case her spice tolerance was low. After several minutes, she calmed down. I removed her blindfold, sending her hair into disarray.

“Alright, now that my insides are no longer on fire, tell me what the hot sauce meant,” she ordered.

I paused. With her sitting there, staring at me with eager eyes, the meaning of condiment felt like a childish attempt at making an analogy.

“Well, uh, I chose hot sauce because…,” I trailed off.

“Because what?”

“Because hot sauce is hot and…”

“Ever heard of finishing a sentence?” she asked.

I chose to blurt it out all at once to get the embarrassment over with. “I chose hot sauce because hot sauce is hot and you’re hot, so you’re like hot sauce.”

Silence.

Then, a barrage of violent laughter. Each guffaw and hoot and snort shot me. It was a never-ending assault.

Tears skipped down her cheeks. “That was really bad. Was that supposed to be like a pickup line? Are you trying to officially ask me out?” she asked between hiccups from laughing so hard.

“Yes,” I whispered.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked up to me. “Well, you have to ketchup if think a barbecutie like me will date someone that can’t make food analogies. Mayo parents help you because that was a seriously pathetic pickup line and you must-ard work on it if you ever want to have a chance with someone as hot and saucy as me.”

“I’ve never heard that many condiment puns at once.”

“Well, I’m skilled. You’ll learn. Eventually.”

I lowered myself onto one knee and held the remainder of the sandwich up to Karen. “Type Two, will you be the condiment on the sub of my life?”

She smiled. “Yes, Type One. I will.”