“Be right wid ya, sweedhart.”

“It’s ok. Take your time,” I said, scanning the various delicasisies for sale behind the deli counter of my Brooklyn bodega. I wasn’t tempted. I knew exactly what I wanted. 

First, I took care of business, grabbing a bag of chips for that added crunch. Then, I slipped my purple-skinned Motorola Razor out of my pocket and flipped it open.

The night before, while I was sleeping through the very early hours of my Sunday morning, Zack, was texting through the very late hours of his Saturday night. I woke up to a flood of confusing confessions, texts written with a drunken slur. He sent the last text at 3:05 a.m. It said, “I miss you too.”

What do you mean, ‘you miss me’?! And when did I ever say that I missed you first? —Tripping over my heels, I used the meat counter’s glass to break my fall, then the sleeve of my sweatshirt to clear my smudged fingerprints from the scene. 

Still waiting my turn, I returned to the past.—I remembered the first morning I noticed Zack on the Subway platform. He was tall and handsome, with a chiseled jaw that reminded me of Freddie Prinze Jr.. He didn’t see me see him, so I turned the volume up on my iPod and continued bopping to my beats, entertained by the beautiful man accompanying me to work. 

The next day, I saw him again. 

And so it went, for most of May. Separately, we’d ride the F Train into the City together. He’d get off first, at West 4th Street.—I love a man who doesn’t work in Midtown. 

Then, one day it rained. And the Subway was more crowded than usual. Without warning, I was crushed against my crush, like two sardines in an overstuffed tin. Our eyes met as the train lurched forward and left the station. 

For our first date, we agreed that he would pick me up. After all, he lived only four doors down. Then, we walked to Boat, the dive bar on Dean with weathered shipplack walls and colored Christmas lights all year round. Over a couple of cold ones, I learned thatZack had noticed me, too. He’d even given me a nickname. He called me Dancing Girl.

The last time we spoke was on the Wednesday before the Fourth of July. That morning, we met at our usual time and rode the next train into the City. He was headed out of town for the weekend. At West 4th Street, he said, See you when I get back!, and got off the train.

One, then two weeks went by.—No texts. No dates. No Subway rondezvous.—I’d leave for work each morning, hoping to see Zack on the platform so we could talk. Then, ride the train alone, accompanied only by the nauseating sensation of being discarded.

Time passed, and the seasons started to shift, Summer into Fall.—I didn’t notice Zack on the platform before boarding the train. But when I looked up, there he was, not fifty feet away, at the other end of the car. If he was caught off guard, it didn’t show. Our eyes met, but he was just a stranger on the train. You can’t miss a stranger.    

***

“Ok! Dat’s one pound pastrami, one pound Swiss,” said the man behind the counter, still working to complete a local woman’s order. He placed a new hunk of meat on the slicer. “So my brother, he’s got dis woman. And she treat ’im wid no respect. He says he loves ’er.  But man, I’m tellin’ ya. She treats ’im so bad.”

The woman nodded, but I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or just anxious for her cold cuts.  

“Me, I don’t pud up wid dat. She treat me bad, I’m outta there. I say, too many fish in da sea, to pud up wid dat. You know what I mean, sweedhart?” 

Sweedhart. That’s me. 

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said, after a two-second delay. “I say the same thing about men.”

“Dat’s right, sweedhart. Now, what can I get ya?”

I ordered a turkey sandwich on rye, extra mustard.