Pastrami and Swiss

The pigeons eyed him suspiciously and he wondered, not for the first time, if they could smell the aroma of deli meat and bread. He took a wide berth on the sidewalk, giving the beady eyed dinosaurs their space. The air was breezy but temperate, warmer than most February Days in New York. The streets were a hum of activity. He had grown fond of this industrial playscape over the years. His grandparents immigrated to New York in the mid 1900s and founded their small but stable Delicatessen, which was passed to his father, and one day would be passed to him.

He saw her sitting on the steps leading to the National History Museum. Long tan trench coat, hair pulled back in a messy bun, blue jeans and a oversized t-shirt that read 'History in the Making.' The humming of the city created an otherworldly atmosphere as he watched her eating her Pastrami and Swiss on Rye. It was her go to lunch every week day. He should know. She buys it from his pop's shop. Everyday she walks the four blocks to Sal's Delicatessen and waits until he is available to make her sandwich. He knew there were other deli shops closer to her work at the museum, but she didn't seem to notice them. Today, today was different. When she ordered her lunch she asked him to join her. On the steps. Her smile was an intoxicating fragrance of longing and hope realized. How long had his heart been besotted for her? He was smitten the very first day he saw her, standing on the sidewalk by the subway entrance, eyes wide with worries. He had been a man possessed, so great was his desire to shelter her.

Watching her now from his place across the street, he couldn't help but notice the way her startling green eyes and dark brunette hair hanging loosely about her shoulders captured his very heart with a palpable yearning. She was beautiful, yet it was not her physicality that bewitched him but her kindness. She embraced every being she encountered with her words and actions. She was Spring bent on warming the frozen hearts of Winter.

His hands were sweating. His heart thundered in his chest, as he slowly willed his staggering legs across the street. Who was he after all? Just the son of a Deli owner. He made sandwiches for a living. She was Aphrodite, exquisite in appearance and beautiful in character. She was important, he was Hephaestus, crippled, clumsy and unsightly before her. Was she asking him to lunch as a piteous grift, or was this the real thing? Did she see in him the prepossessing renderings he saw in her, of goodness so tangible it lured him in like the Siren song? He felt the panic creeping into his chest. He wanted to return to the safety and security of the shop, but he could not turn away. She was a flower in a concrete jungle and he the weed, yet there she was waiting for him. Today would be different.

She looked up and smiled when she saw him crossing the street. She felt nauseous in the best sense of the term. Her throat felt tight as if the very cavities of her chest were succumbing to his seductive stride. She could not believe she finally had the gumption to ask him to lunch. He was kind and wholesome. Always smiling, she felt sheltered in his presence and audacious in her desire. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to kiss her. Every weekday she went to him, desperate to tell him how she felt, but powerless to find the words. Pastrami and Swiss on Rye is what she said, everyday for the last year. She joked with his father, behind the counter slicing fresh deli meat for his regulars, his white hair in fluid movement with slicing machine. She let others go before her just to stay in his presence a little longer, to see him work and converse with those around him. He a real person in a forest of plastic trees.

Finding the quaint Deli shop had been an accident. She had just accepted the position of assistant to the curator at the museum and leased her first apartment in the city. She had never lived in a metropolis before and was anxious about the route. Per a friend's advice, she was practicing her route to work via the subway. She got confused and exited the Subway terminals directly in front of his shop. She must have looked as lost as she felt because he came out of the deli to offer assistance. They laughed, they talked, and then he made her a sandwich and her heart was his.

He was handsome. Brown eyes, olive skin. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were a testament to his unwavering devotion to his family. She could see it. Effortlessly lending a hand and taking responsibility to make his father's life easier. She would marry him. She decided this one day after six months of Pastrami and Swiss. They would have beautiful babies, and live a modest life. She could see it. Laid out plainly. He was the one she wanted. She wanted to be the same for him. Everyday she wanted to ask him to lunch and every day she ordered her sandwich instead. But something shifted in her soul this morning. She woke with the unyielding desire to hold him and to be his and he hers. She felt emphatically that should she dissuade herself from being his today, he would never be hers at all. Today was Saturday. Today would be different.

He stumbled on the steps before her and looked to her in mortification, but she laughed. He laughed. "Pastrami and Swiss?" She asked offering half of her sandwich. Her eyes met his with an undeniable anticipation. He smiled, solaced by the truth he read in her gaze, and lowered himself next to her never wavering from her regard. He reached for her, their fingers overlapping, and responded. "Pastrami and Swiss."