Congratulations On Surviving the Smoked Turkey Bomb!

Jim and Mary stood side by side on the tile floor, the fluorescent lights turning them both a sickly yellow white. She investigated the filthy grout for signs of life as he surveyed the menu, trying to determine which item was least likely to give him food poisoning. By the time they arrived he had it down to the Italian Special and the controversial Smoked Turkey Bomb, blamed for the death of at least four local elderly citizens of moderate to severe obesity. This was, for a Quizno’s sandwich, a fairly low health risk.

When they finally reached the front of the line Mary spoke first.

“Honey Mustard Chicken sub,” she said nonchalantly. Jim’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Honey?” he said, his hand ever so lightly touching her arm.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, taking his hand in hers and kissing the back of it.

Puzzled he nodded and ordered the Smoked Turkey Bomb, deciding today was the day to take risks. They waited in silence, watching their sandwiches traverse the oven with a painful lack of urgency. When all was done they sat at the least wobbly table across from one another. Jim smiled at Mary, but Mary could not have noticed, eyes on her sandwich, mouth petulant. Jim would’ve given anything to know her thoughts.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he said, hoping to lowball her.

Mary shook her head, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Oh, sorry honey. Its nothing.”

“You’re sure?” Jim said, shifting in his seat as he felt his checkbook in his back pocket into his tailbone.

“Yep.”

They unwrapped their sandwiches. Mary held hers up in a salute.

“Here’s to us,” she said, taking a big bite. She took another and another, devouring the sandwich mouthful by mouthful until the span of table in front of her was nothing more than a ruin of crumbs, stains and the discarded carapace of the hoagie. Then she started to cry.

It was subtle at first but it grew like a storm, a few sniffles turning to hushed chokes. In under a minute she was gasping and holding her face in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked concerned, putting down his sandwich to devote his full attention to the sniffling, smoldering woman he loved.

She shook her head and planted both hands on the tabletop as if to hold herself up but when Jim reached out she drew them back, collapsing in on herself with them. Her eyes were starting to rim red and sobs had begun hiccoughing out of her uncontrollable. Between them she half formed words.

“I’m…” she started before she clucked out of language, “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Jim grabbed her hands across the table and held her fast. This time she offered no resistance, slacking into his awkward grip.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, staring her in the eyes. She could only keep his stare for a few seconds before she had to look down again. She sniffled and prepared to deliver her speech staring at the ruins of her sandwich.

“You’re a sweet guy, and I could never break up with you. I’ve always known that. But this just isn’t working.”

Jim’s face took on a blank look. “What do you mean its not working?”

Mary didn’t seem to notice. “Still, I couldn’t bring myself to call it off, and I couldn’t stay true. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better, so I decided this was the best way to end it.” She looked up at him at long last from across the table, staring in to his eyes with pure agony. “I’m allergic to mustard seeds.”

Slowly it all came together. Her overall pickiness at picnics, her dislike of Grey Poupon jokes, her insistence on non-traditional dips for her chicken fingers. How could he have been so blind?

“It seemed like the best way to do this. I want to die in your arms.” Mary planted herself across the table onto Jim’s chest, crushing the remaining half of his Smoked Turkey Bomb. Her took her head in his hands and stroked her hair, tears welling in his eyes. “It won’t be long now,” she promised.

Jim took a long deep breath into her head, trying to take as much of her as he could with him; the feel of her against him weighing down his body, the scent of her hair filling his lungs. They stayed that way, locked in this awkward embrace as vinaigrette dressing seeped into their clothing for what seemed like an eternity. In truth, it was closer to four and a half minutes. At long last, Mary rose from against his chest. She stared at him, then glanced around.

“Hey,” she shouted at a Quizno’s employee, barely conscious, cleaning a table across the restaurant.

“Huh?” he replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve and spitting on the floor before leaning on his mop.

“Is there any real mustard in the honey mustard sauce?”

The employee guffawed. “Hell no. Where the fuck you think you are, lady?” He took a moment to wipe his copious exposed crack with his hand, then sniffed it before returning to his task.

“Shit.” Mary bit her lip, avoiding Jim’s eyes. He had held back the tears when she had lain in his arms, but it was becoming more of a struggle for him. “I didn’t plan this,” she explained.

“So…” Jim said, still trying to hold on to her. She pushed him off her and stood up. “What now?” he managed, voice beginning to choke.

“Fuck.” She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry, Jim. Its not working. I slept with your best friend.”

“Jerry?” Jim said, his voice breaking with the effort.

“And Jake. Christ, my shirt. Fucking Quiznos.” Mary tore off her top. “Good luck. You’re a great guy. I’m sure you’ll find somebody.”

Tears were flowing freely from Jim’s eyes now. “You’re leaving me?” he asked, pained. “Like this?”

But Mary didn’t hear him. She had already strode across the room to the Quizno’s employee, who was now sniffing his finger intently. She grabbed him by his apron and pulled him towards her. “Doing anything, stud?” she asked, voice thick with desire. He shook his head blankly, and she dragged him out the door, leaving the mop to tumble to the floor, unmanned.

Jim still sat at the table sobbing, his tears mixing with his crushed and discarded sandwich, diluting the stains on his sweatshirt. He gasped and looked at the hideous lights, as if they could offer him some sort of explanation for what had passed, but nothing came.

By the time Kristen Bell arrived and placed her hands on his back, he might as well have been a thousand miles away, in Omaha with his father, listening to the man list off the reasons he’d left him as a child.

But Kristen Bell began to speak with the voice of an angel. She wiped away a single tear and bent close to him before she whispered to him.

“Congratulations on surviving the Smoked Turkey Bomb. You did good. You did real good.”

She gave his hand a final squeeze, then turned on her heel. Those were the rules. That was how it had to be.