For three consecutive weeks I made scheduled visits to the Subway store down the street. Three Tuesday nights: securing myself a seat by 6.30pm with a book in hand to make it look less like it was sad that I was dining alone. My decision for regularity in my visits to Subway had been initially made due to my attraction to their signposted five dollar meal offers. This month: Roasted Chicken Breast sub, which is a tad too bland if not for the cheddar. But I’d give $5 for a good slap of cheese and a sub to keep me full, which is why I had decided to patronize Subway on a fine Tuesday evening.
On the first week, I’d chosen my usual spot to sit at should I do actually come to Subway during other days, and reclined into my corner which had been just enough for me to gain a view of all the patrons in the store and have my own privacy. Not longer than two minutes into my meal, I’d noticed a similar looking sub across the space in the adjacent corner. It was in your hand, and in your other hand was a dogged copy of Watchmen. Roasted Chicken Breast Sub. Hearty Italian bread, lettuce, tomatoes, something fell out, was that an olive? Good Lord. Honey mustard is dripping, too. Or is that regular mustard? I couldn’t quite tell if my liking of your sub had been influenced by the sight of Watchmen in your other hand or by the preferences for my own sandwhich. All in all, my kind of sub.  My gaze then shifted to your face and as the lines of my vision slowly inched towards the plain that revealed your features, I found myself quite captivated by the curl of your lips with a slight inhalation that signalled a chuckle, and the speed at which your eyes darted from line to image. I stayed to read my book until you’d left.
On the second Tuesday, I returned for another serving of the same stuff I’d gotten the previous week. Ten minutes after the time I sat down, you walked in, still with Watchmen in your hand. This time I took notice of what you ordered. And true enough I’d been accurate in determining the contents of your sub, and affirmed that it was honey mustard with which you laced them with. As you went over to your usual spot, I imposed the task of catching your name upon myself. I’d braced myself with the stark possibility of failure on that very day, where I felt my chances weren’t too high- for I doubted that you’d noticed my being in the other corner of the room, and because I didn’t have anything but my bear hands to catch your name with. After a shamefully feeble attempt to catch your name by raising my fists and clenching them in the air, I only managed to win curious and amused stares from the neighbouring tables. I went home that Tuesday without your name in my possession, downtrodden by my carelessness and the amateur attempts in the stashing of your name in the pockets of my memory.
I decided to bring along a butterfly net the following Tuesday, hoping it’d heighten my chances of success that week. I sat quietly in the corner of the deli, waiting for your arrival. 6.40pm, you came in. Roasted Chicken Breast, Hearty Italian, Honey Mustard. During the ingestion of our respective sandwhiches, I waited patiently for you to glance over. Only if you’d graced me a few of those glances would it have been less awkward for me to stretch my net out and catch the little bugger. I tried baiting them with glances of my own, but those hadn’t been too helpful. Quite like a synesthete, I imagined up possible manifestations of my haul, and the colours they took form in. Red for Melissa, Melanie, Melinda. Turquoise for Brenda, Betty, Bridget. Orange for Anthea, Andrea, Amanda, and Olive for Tammy, Therese, and Taryn. Suddenly you got up from your seat, a movement which had kept me frozen and attached to my own. My eyes automatically darted towards the crevices in the wall, palms clenched to the pole of my net on my lap, and it was then I had on my master disguise of impassiveness. It would simply be conceited and unnecessarily hopeful of myself if I had hypothesized that your deliberate not looking towards my seat was part of your plan to play hard to get. And yet I did. In this period where I bode my time in anticipation for your return from the Ladies, I twiddled my thumbs and hatched other means that would bring me closer to the catching of your name. I figured I could trip to get your attention so that you might spare me the shower of your attention, or I could re-situate myself to be within a closer proximity to your seat.
Whilst you were still occupied in the Ladies, I decided with finality that the latter plan would be a more practical and less embarrassing option to carry out. I took advantage of your absence to scurry over to a table that had just been vacated so that it would look like I had been there all along. As I grabbed my bags and my butterfly net to walk over, you walked out of the Ladies ever so enticingly with your fingers pinching up your leggings and sashayed over to your table. In the midst of that journey back to your table I noticed you’d turned your head and looked over to where I had been sitting previously, and this made my heart burst into song. Then, before one could snap his fingers your eyes had landed right onto me. And in that precise moment I was thrown off my guard, which caused me to panic and trip over my laces which had come undone, with no free hands to grab on to the tables or the chairs to prevent my face from meeting the floor. Whilst falling, in a flurry to free my hands, I’d let go of the net and without conscious knowing had thrusted it up in the air, which made its way to your body with the company of undulated gasps from people all around.
That was when you tried to shield yourself from my offensive net by blocking it with your palms, but it still fell on your body. WIth slightly delayed reflexes you pushed it off, causing it to fall onto my back instead. Shocked by the unfolding of events, you came over to me and helped me up to my feet and asked if I had been hurt, much to my contentment and chagrin. “I’m alright, I’m alright, thank you, thank you...”
The staff soon joined you in soliciting the status of my well-being. Though the pain was admittedly excruciating in my knees and arms especially, I maintained a front of nonchalance. As I got on my feet, people around helped with the arrangement of tables and chairs with latent telekinesis, and often gave me pitiful and concerned looks that only served to cut me down to size. At this stage, I had decided it best to abandon all plans and save myself from further humiliation. As I turned to leave Subway, you called out to me and in a last ditch attempt I turned around with all the cool I could muster, where it was then when you pointed towards my net and said rather apprehensively, “Sorry... My tag got caught in your net. May I have it back please?” I turned my head towards the ridiculously giant net and in there I saw in bold white words against a faded purple background, [SOMEBODY END THIS FOR ME NICELY]
