I was waiting for the man with the deli hat to ask me what kind of sandwich I would like. He always asked, and I always got turkey and cheddar, but on the days when the special also involved turkey it was difficult for him.

I always wanted to just walk up like in the movies and say, “I’ll have the usual” and then some sharp young man would say, “Coming right up.” That would never happen here and it made me feel forgettable.

While I was waiting for the deli man to look up from slicing his tomatoes, a woman approached and acted like she was looking at the menu, but I could feel her eyes on my back. She was probably forty-five, and even though I was almost thirty most people thought I was twenty or so. I have a young face. Anyway, she had no way of knowing.

The man asked what he could make and I said turkey and cheddar and then he asked if I wanted lettuce, tomato and onion before I could say I wanted it on sourdough. I said, “Just lettuce.” It was pointless to tell him things in order.

“Do you want the special?”

“No.”

“Oh, uh, okay. What kind of bread?”

“Sourdough.”

He put the meat on the bread, then he said, “Oh, uh, mustard and mayonnaise?”

“Just mayo.”

He took the meat off and put it back into the tray, then spread the mayo on the bread.

The woman scratched behind her ear and peeked over at my book. When her hand came back down you could see where her wedding ring had been. When she smiled I knew she was bad at flirting. She should have at least tucked her hair behind her ear. She flirted like she’d only been divorced for a short time and she had yet to take drastic measures like short skirts, extra makeup or plastic surgery.

Her pant suit was nice, but it looked like the type she would squeeze in to for a job interview and then tuck back into the closet until her career took another turn.

“You wanted lettuce and tomato?”

“Just lettuce.”

“Onion?”

“I’m allergic to onion.”

“Oh, right.”

He put the meat back on the sandwich and then the lettuce and then he closed it and reached for the knife. I was about to tell him about the cheese, but then he asked, “You wanted… Swiss?”

Turkey and Swiss was the special. But I hate Swiss cheese. I told him this every time I got a sandwich. Just like I told him about the onions.

“Oh yeah, cheddar,” he said.

Part of me was happy this guy had a job. I glanced at the other guy doing the smart work in the back, pushing buttons on a calculator and scratching his forehead with the capped end of a ballpoint pen. I wished they could trade because I hated the way this guy made sandwiches, but he was the only one making food when I took my lunch break. I took my lunch early to beat the crowd, or really late for the same reason. So it was okay.

The woman watched as the man put the cheese carefully down, lining up the edges, then he replaced the top slice of bread and cut the sandwich. It looked nice, though. And he always put the toothpicks in the bread and I’d quit telling him not to do that about a month ago. It looked like a photograph.

He handed the sandwich over to me with a dull smile, and I walked to the cashier.

The woman said she wanted the special.

“Turkey and Swiss?”

“Mm hmm.”

“On what kind of bread?”

“The special.”

“Uh… but what kind of bread?”

“Well, it says Turkey and Swiss on seven grain with lettuce, tomato and avocado.”

“Avocado?”

“Well, yes.”

“Hm, that should be onion.”

The man in the back said avocado was right, and the deli man shrugged.

When the deli man had his head down the woman started to adjust things, looking into the glass deli cover as a mirror. She unbuttoned her blouse once and shrugged the blazer open a bit. She made a fake yawn and rubbed at the corner of her mouth then looked at her finger. She rubbed the extra lipstick onto a napkin.

Then the woman moved closer to me while her sandwich was being made. She stared at the cover of the book I had with me, waiting for me to notice and make eye contact. I looked up when it was too much to bear. I didn’t want her to feel bad.

“I’m trying to figure out if that’s, you know, a play on words.” She pointed at the book cover.

“Ham on Rye?”

“Yeah. Does it mean something?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read much. But I think it’s just a sandwich.”

She laughed uncomfortably and said, “I guess sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich.” It was unbearable. Then she said that I had a nice blazer. Her wedding ring finger looked naked and it was several tones lighter than the rest of her. She could have been forty-five or fifty. She could have had kids my age. I felt awful.

The cashier handed me my change. I smiled and put the bills into my wallet, dropping the change into the empty tip jar. I walked off while she paid and hoped she wouldn’t follow. I could feel her desperate eyes on my back as the door closed behind me. I sat in the courtyard around the back, facing the ocean and the breeze. I opened my book and opened the little to-go box.

He must have slathered an inch of mustard onto that sandwich when I wasn’t looking. Force of habit. He almost always forgot that I’d ask for just mayo, that I hate their cheap yellow mustard, but I usually caught him before the knife hit the bread. I thought about the woman showing off her empty ring finger, about her reflection as she unbuttoned her blouse and that made me feel lousy.

All I could think about as I tried to read was feeling bad for that woman eating her special sandwich all alone. I wondered if she felt as forgettable as me.