Vox Nihilim

My life has been an absolute mess since she left. You get used to the little nuances of a relationship, and then when it's gone...POW! A big hole. She knew. I trusted her. She always gave me a smile and an extra pickle.

I miss you, Sandwich Girl.

Yesterday was the last straw. I'm waiting in line watching the miscreant behind the sneeze-guard roll up some other unlucky shlub's Vegetable Medley wrap and wondering why on earth I keep coming back.

She's gone, Man!
Moved on to greener food service pastures!

I feel the tears starting to well up as I see him forget the frilly toothpicks and watch in horror as the Veggie Wrap vomits grilled peppers everywhere like a drunken Las Vegas showgirl on a Chili-tini bender. Why Sandwich Girl?!? Why?

Now it's my turn. He has to ask me what I want on my garlic wrap. Sigh. SHE never asked. SHE remembered. I go through the list. Light Mayo, Brown mustard, shredded lettuce, Pepper Jack, and Roast Beef. He looks at me dully. Like I'm his eighth grade English teacher who just got done reprimanding him for using "ain't". He starts to compile the ingredients and immediately I have to reprimand him for trying to add tomatoes.

She would have known better.
She never tried to use tomatoes.

He slathers the edge of the wrap with enough condiments for ten foot-long subs served to hungry, burly men wearing hard hats. And then he begins the clumsy rolling process. It's a nightmare. I have to avert my eyes for fear I will turn to stone at the sight of such horrid sandwich-making. But it's like a train wreck where the train is filled with clowns, and pythons, and fireworks. I can't look away. Thick rivers of mustard and mayonnaise squeeze out of the sides like a toothpaste tube opened by a wolverine and applied by an elephant. It's everywhere. Under the wrap. In his hair. Spattered like a bloodstain on the wall. It's awful.

He has the audacity to ask if I want pickles.

"NO! I want a fucking sandwich that doesn't look like the aftermath of a zombie apocolypse!" I want to scream at him.

Oh darling Sandwich Girl!
Why hath thou forsaken me!!

"Yes, Please. Dill." I say instead.

He looks at the mess he's handing me, and in a gesture of apology throws FOUR pickles on my plate. That's crazy generous. We make eye contact and then IPublish Post let my gaze drift down to the sandwich and his four sad offerings of dill. Then back to him. He looks away...ashamed.

YOU CANNOT BUY MY SILENCE WITH PICKLES!!!