It’s errand day and we need lunch. We pull up to a Subway, one with an old bright yellow awning. One I’ve driven past many times over 20 years but never entered.
The front door opens to a hallway, blue-grey carpet stretching ahead. To the left, a tax office with a sign printed in black and white inkjet. To the right, the wood veneer hollowcore that leads to the Subway, cheap gold handle hang loose.
Inside, we order, joking with the staff. I worked at a Subway back in the day and am proud to have found the same knives for home. My husband cut himself the first day using them, just as I did. The sandwich artist agrees that it has to happen to everyone their first day.
We sit down, eat, watching the rain fall from swollen grey skies, watching a contracting van and an SUV pull up to the drive-through.
I comment, “If we were to come back here, I don’t think this place would still be here. I don’t think it would have ever been here.”
My husband agrees.
We finish our sandwiches and leave, not looking back.