ONE
WILDER
Pressing on her soft warmth, I watch as juices run out of her thick center.
Damn, I love a juicy girl.
Testing to be sure, because I don’t wanna rush and do this before she’s primed and ready, I push again with two thick fingers, mouth watering as more of that delicious moisture spills out, over and down the thighs.
Perfect. She’s good to go.
The corner of my mouth pops up in a smirk of self-satisfaction.
And to think, I get to do this dozens of times a day, all in a day’s work.
“Order up!” I call, tapping the bell on the counter to remind the customer to come back to my corner of the bodega and grab their food that’s still sitting there.
I dress a fresh hoagie roll with my special love sauce. Homemade herbed peppercorn aioli, rather than some shit that arrived in a twenty-five-gallon drum, “fresh” off a barge after it took two months to ship here.
Nah, my shit’s homemade. Full of love. That’s why I call it my love sauce. I even grow the herbs myself, on the roof of my shitty building in the South Bronx. Makes all the difference.
“Thank you!” The person picks up their sandwich and taps the counter twice in greeting.
Downrightkindfor a New Yorker. Probably a transplant, my guess is from the South, where everyone is sickeningly sweet, like that stuff they call tea.
Placing the warm, juicy chicken thighs atop the sauced buns, I spread the rest of the toppings on, then sprinkle on the finishing touches. Wrapping her up—I’m a stickler for such things—she’s ready to go.
I turn around, footlong in hand (sandwich, not my sausage), I find the guy who ordered it still standing there, waiting impatiently, annoyance all over his face.
I hand over the sandwich. “Your Chicken Love Supreme.”
“That just sounds gross,” he says, swiping the package from my hand and taking off.
Clearly he’s got somewhere to be that’s more important than a thank you.
Yeah, that’s what I’m more used to.
A contented sigh passes my lips. This is what it feels like to be home.
My tattooed knuckles rap on the counter in farewell to him, but he’s long gone. The nerve of him, dunking on my names. The Chicken Love Supreme is a newer addition to the options here, and it might be my current fave. My sandwich names are great. Hell, naming my creations was my stipulation for taking this job. Closest thing I’ve ever gotten to designing a real menu.
The bodega owner doesn’t give two shits what I do back here, as long as it doesn’t get her any health code violations or fines. Plus, she’s raking in a lot more dough with me behindthe counter than she did when it was just hot dogs and chicken tenders back here.
“Nobody’s poached your ass yet?” The raspy voice I recognize as a regular has me turning around from where I was cleaning my station and keeping my lowboy topped up.
“’Ey, Neil. Still making sandwiches, my guy.” We trade fist bumps. “What about you, still walking dogs?”
The thirty-something regular of mine holds his hands out, showing me zero leashes on him today. “I love the furry fuckers, it’s a sweet gig. But I got the day off. Thought you might get snatched up for something more than sandwiches by now.”
A bittersweet thought.
Look, this place isn’t the job I dreamed of as a head chef, or even a decent leg up in the food industry so I can get there one day, but I get to make people food I’m passionate about, fill their stomachs with my creations day in and day out, and for now, it’s gotta be enough.
“Sandwiches by day, New American by night,” I tell him.
“Double shifting it, huh.” He holds out two fists.
I give him a pound on both and turn back around.
