Made With Love

Dear Counter Guy from Jimmy John’s:

Today, you gave me so much more than a sandwich. You gave me the creeps.

Not in a You-Might-Follow-Me-Home kind of way but in a You-Assume-Too-Much-Familiarity kind of way.

Don’t try to get my order “just right.” And please don’t run to the sandwich line to “make it yourself”. Don’t press down so firmly on the freshly made bread with your latex-gloved hands to make sure the ingredients stay intact, leaving soul-scarring indentations of your memory visible when I unwrap.

I wouldn’t like a cool drink with that. I would like my sandwich, and my service, dry and neutral.

Don’t raise your eyebrows at me. My top is low-cut for unintentional reasons. It’s just too big. And that’s not hot. It’s sloppy. I’m sloppy. But then again, so are you.

And those bedroom eyes you mistake for lust? It’s drugs. That’s right, I’m doped up on muscle relaxers since I fell down my staircase over the weekend. That’s right. I’m clumsy. Again, not hot. I was carrying laundry. My husband’s laundry in fact. He’s hot. And he’ll beat you up.

Thanks for the sandwich,

Milena