I am having lunch with myself and a book at Subway. This is a perfect scenario, as I stand firm in my convictions that nothing compares to an old school BLT.
Would I like it toasted? No, thanks. Hard bread makes my face hurt.
Cheese? No, because there's no C in BLT.
Would I like to add any vegetables? No, because it's called a BLT. Not a BLTABCDEFG. It's complete and brilliant, in and of itself. Three letters.
Add extra mayo, a dash of salt and pepper, and I'm so down with my old school self. The only downside is that I'll carry Subway's sour aroma with me all day long, in my clothes and in my hair. But this is a small price to pay; such is my love for bacon and mayonnaise.
Lots of people are here today - families on their way to a post-Christmas matinee, teenage couples basking in the freedom of a few more days off school so they may gaze adoringly at one another and share a soda, some grown boys eating with voracity that makes me think of my future grocery bills. It's a veritable plethora at Subway today.
I'm seated near the bathroom. Not because I love sitting near the bathroom, but because perimeters have become my preference. Anxiety? PTSD? Neurosis? Call it what you want. I'll always take the corner spot. The middle of the room? Too vulnerable. I need to see what's happening, or at least know nothing's happening behind me.
A little boy has gone into the bathroom by himself, and his dad waits with the little sister at their table. From the bathroom, I can hear this warbling sound, almost a moan, not quite distress, but floating all over some imaginary, scattered octave.
Then it comes to me: the little boy is singing. He knows he's alone, but he's forgotten we can hear him. And he's singing, with great abandon, the chorus of Angels We Have Heard on High.
Glory to God in the highest, from the bathroom in Subway. At this moment, I can't think of a more beautiful sound.