Chapter 7 Chapter 6: The Deli
My job at Florence’s Deli was never about the money. The pay was barely enough to cover my spending on clothes and fun, and it certainly wasn’t a rung on some grand career ladder or to have savings. Yet, to my own surprise, I genuinely loved it. I’ve always had a knack for customer service, the easy smile, the patient ear, but the true magic happened in the quiet hours before we opened.
There was a profound peace in the mechanical rhythm of the morning setup. Slicing through crisp heads of romaine and iceberg, the steady thump-thump-thump of the knife on the worn wooden board became a kind of meditation. I’d lose myself in the scent of fresh dill and damp earth as I refilled the salad bar, layering bright cherry tomatoes, cubes of cheese, and glossy black olives into their chilled metal trays. This was my time, a sacred space where my brain could gently untether from the constant whirl of my problems and simply be.
My morning shifts always began alone, a solitary hour that felt like a secret I shared with the silent dining room. It was my chance to collect the scattered pieces of myself before the day began. The familiar routine was a comfort: the hum of the industrial fridge, the smell of brewing kafka, the first sunbeams cutting through the front window.
Today was no different. As I went through the motions, wiping down counters, folding napkins, letting my mind wander where it pleased, I was perfectly, contentedly alone. But outside, the world was waking up, and I knew that soon enough, the clock would strike eleven. The calm would break, my colleague would arrive with her cheerful chatter, and the door would chime with the first customers of the lunchtime rush. For now, there was only the quiet and the simple, satisfying work of my hands. This ritual was the best therapy for my problems, far better than any forced conversation or well-meaning advice.
Yet, as my hands worked on autopilot, my mind kept drifting past the immediate anxieties, sailing back to the calm, methodical presence of my old war and politics mentor, a Clam named Doctor Norton.
We hadn't spoken in months, but the memory of our conversations was a steady anchor. I pictured his study, the smell of old books and polished shell, the intricate carved rushém board always set up and ready for a game. Rushém wasn’t just a pastime; it was a language. A bit like chess, but far more fluid, it was a game of strategic concessions and unexpected alliances, much like the political theories he taught. He never just moved pieces; he narrated the logic behind them, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to emanate from the depths of history itself.
“See here,” he’d say, tapping a segmented piece with a delicate claw. “To act is a natural response to a threat. But to choose not to, to stand firm when the board shakes? That is not absence. That is a decision.”
The thought struck me with the force of a long-forgotten truth. My lack of Trembling wasn’t an emptiness to be filled; it was a stance I had unconsciously taken. But why? And against what? My parents would only offer platitudes, and my friends would try to solve it with a night out, something that felt impossibly loud and bright right now.
No, I needed a strategist, not a cheerleader. I needed someone who understood that the most profound battles are fought in the silence of one’s own mind. Wiping my hands on my apron, I felt a resolve crystallize. The lunch rush was coming, but before it did, I would do it. I would bite the bullet, dial his number, and invite myself over. It was time to bring my unsettled board to the master.
With my dinner date with Doctor Norton set, a fragile sense of purpose began to steady the chaos inside me. The methodical rhythm of my knife…thump, thump, thump, through a mound of fresh herbs was a grounding mantra. Each chop was a minute closer to answers, a step away from the lingering shame of the morning.
The bell above the deli door chimed, a sharp, cheerful sound that sliced through my focus. I didn't need to look up to know the particular energy that had just invaded my quiet sanctuary. It was Kia, a whirlwind of relentless optimism and gossip, my co-worker and the polar opposite of my current mood.
In she strutted, the morning sun catching the cheap sequins on her top. A big, stupid grin was plastered across her face, so wide it looked like it might crack her cheeks. “Hi, Nanda! I hopped it would be you working today!” Her voice was a little too loud for the pre-opening hush.
I forced a smile, the expression feeling foreign and tight on my face. “Hi. Just finishing up. We’ll be ready for the lunch trade in a few.” I kept my eyes on the emerald pile of parsley, hoping the dismissal in my tone would be enough.
It wasn’t. She hovered near the counter, her movements large and uncontained, her hands fluttering like excited birds. The air around her buzzed with some news she was physically straining to hold in.
“So,” she chirped, leaning her elbows on the countertop, forcing herself into my line of sight. “Do you notice anything… different about me?”
I finally glanced up, giving her a perfunctory once-over. “Your hair,” I offered flatly. “It looks… really nice.” It was the same shade of honey-blonde it always was.
She let out a theatrical sigh, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “No, silly! Not my hair. Look at this!” She thrust her wrist across the counter, nearly knocking over my bowl of dressing. Dangling from it was a stunning, gem-studded pairing bracelet, the tiny stones catching the light and throwing prismatic shards across the wall. The craftsmanship was undeniable, a serious piece of metal and gem.
“Si asked me over dinner last night!” she practically sang, her voice vibrating with a joy so potent it felt like an assault. “We’re getting married! You’re one of the first to know! He’s so romantic, had it specially commissioned and everything. It’s fab, ain’t it?” She wiggled her wrist, insisting on a more thorough inspection, her eyes shining with a future so certain it was blinding.
My stomach, already a tangled knot, clenched tighter. The bracelet was a brand, a declaration. Everything I wasn’t, everything I couldn’t have, glittering tauntingly on her wrist.
“How did your date with Joel go?” she barrelled on, finally retracting her hand to admire the bracelet herself. “You um… you know…” She waggled her eyebrows, a gesture meant to be conspiratorial but that felt vulgar and invasive. “Did you finally… Tremble?”
The word hit me like a physical blow. The image of Silver’s horrified face, the slam of the door, the cold hallway…It all rushed back in a nauseating wave.
“Don’t,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than the knife in my hand. I turned my back to her, busying myself with a tray of tomatoes I’d already arranged. “Just don’t go there. I don’t wann-”
The bell on the door chimed again, a jarring, merciful interruption. The first wave of lunchtime customers crashed into the deli, a cacophony of shuffling feet and overlapping conversations. The moment was broken. Kia, momentarily distracted by the influx of patrons, gave me a slightly puzzled look before her customer-service persona snapped into place, her own drama momentarily shelved for the public.
I was left alone with my chopping board, the ghost of her question hanging in the air between the shelves of pickles and bread. The fragile sense of purpose I’d built now felt paper-thin, and the cheerful chatter of the lunch rush sounded like noise. All I could see was the glitter of that bracelet, a tiny, perfect symbol of a world that made sense for everyone but me.
The final hour had dragged like a sentence, each minute a slow, grinding toll of the clock. My smile for the customers had become a rigid, painful mask, my cheer a hollow performance. Every clatter of a plate, every chime of the bell, was a fresh jab at my raw nerves. All I could see was the phantom glitter of Kia’s pairing bracelet, a stark, mocking symbol of a life path that felt forever closed to me.
When the last customer finally shuffled out, the silence they left behind was a physical relief. I didn't waste a second. I crossed the floor in a few quick strides, my hand closing around the heavy cardboard sign hanging on the door. The flip felt profoundly symbolic. With a definitive thunk, I turned the sign, its blank, wooden back now facing the world. CLOSED.
The weight of the key in my hand was solid, real. I slotted it into the heavy, old-fashioned deadbolt, a lock far more substantial than the flimsy modernity required for a deli. The mechanism resisted for a heart-stopping second before yielding with a deep, satisfying clunk of finality. The sound echoed through the empty dining room, a period at the end of a long, exhausting sentence.
I let my forehead rest against the cool glass of the door for just a moment, feeling the day’s tension begin to leach out of me, replaced by a vast, weary emptiness.
“Right then!” Kia’s voice was entirely too bright, slicing through the quiet. She was already shrugging on her jacket, her movements quick and efficient. She’d been avoiding my dark cloud all afternoon, keeping her chatter to the customers and her distance from my station. “See you Thursday, Nanda!”
The words were a polite dismissal, a ritualistic end to our shift. But her tone was edged with a palpable eagerness, a desperate need to escape the oppressive atmosphere I’d radiated all day. She didn’t wait for a reply, already heading for the staff door, the gems on her bracelet catching the low evening light one last time before she vanished into the back.
The silence she left behind was now complete and utterly my own. I was finally, blessedly, alone.