hummus.

“Hummus or baba ganoush?” It only sounds right after the third time she asks me.

“Hummus – or – baba ganoush – ?” It only sounds like words after I realize she is asking me, me, the one who walked in here; me, and not her co-worker next to her behind the counter. They share a look. A smile, not unkind.

“Hummus. Sorry.” For some reason, I motion to my ears, my fingers still numb from the November wind. I motion to my ears, even though my hearing isn’t the problem.

She nods, sagely. “Oh, you… I see,” and smiles again.

She thinks I have headphones in, though I clearly do not.

“No, I…”

She thinks I am deaf. That’s it. And now we’re both confused.

We move on.

She makes me a sandwich, this sweet woman behind a plexiglass partition. She makes me a sandwich and patiently asks if I’d like tomato. I may be allergic to tomato. She’ll check on the tomato, at least. Everything else she just does. Lettuce. Chicken. Olives. White Sauce. Wrap it up tight, cautiously like a newborn baby. Careful, careful. Don’t drop it.

I am grateful to her, this person I will maybe but probably not see ever again. She knows what I need, knows not to ask what I want.

“Food,” I would tell her, if she did. “I only need food. I haven’t been eating. I need something warm.”

“Anything else?” She says it like a courtesy. She knows I don’t want anything else. She knows that I don’t really want the sandwich she made me, either, but neither of us mentions that.

The payment screen is already up, waiting for my card. I wonder if I just walked away, if she’d just let me go without paying. If it would be like I’d never been there, wasn’t there now.

“No, no. Nothing. Sorry. Thank you.”

I tip her more than I normally would. I wonder if I tip her enough.

And I’m gone.

And I’m gone.