The Deli Dance

So there's this deli across the street from where I work... and one of the deli workers and I have a dance...
We'll call this dance the Tango... and not just because of the spicy mustard. He and I have a love/hate thing going on - akin to the Tango - full of passion, one way or the other.

It all started several months ago on a cold morning - 3:45am. I was rolling into work - but wanted an egg-white omelet before I hit the newsroom. I walked into the deli, which is open 24 hours - and someone is always manning the sandwich bar. I asked for the omelet, and he said the grill wasn't fired up. I got the feeling that he was just lazy - because I had spied him making an egg sandwich on the grill for a ConEd worker as I was walking in. I called him out on this fact, and he wasn't happy. He, with every shred of reluctancy and heavy sighs - made my omelet and gave it to me. He was pissed.

Since that early morning - like back in January - he and I have had a thing. The thing is that I now have to sidle up to the counter, flash him a great mood (even though it's 3:30 in the morning and I've just rolled out of bed and still batting away cobwebs) for him to even acknowledge my order. He takes his time; I have to wait 10 minutes for him to validate me and my order - and then he fires up the grill and makes my omelet like a surgeon. This is our dance.

And at the end of the dance, I thank him silently. For back in a windowless newsroom with florescent lights beaming overhead - I eat the best egg-white omelet I've ever had - and curtsy his talent for feeding me ahead of a hectic and mind-numbing day. This is our dance, and I will always want to hit the ballroom floor... twists, turns, dips, and all.