#52
Everyday, she thought.
Everyday, it’s the 10:36 train from St. James Street to Liverpool Street. He walks past the Subway, where I’m usually in the middle of heating up the meatballs. They come in a big plastic bag that I cut open with scissors and pour into the big metal tray that sits over hot water.
My manager, Peter, he always yells at me because he thinks they are going to break into pieces. They won’t, I tell him; they are made from the nasty bits.
It’s a joke, but I’m not sure really, what they are made of.
But the 10:36 train is usually about a minute late. He knows it, and he walks past, quickly in his long blue coat, gloves. He is thin, usually with a backpack.
The smell of cookies starts to overtake the smell of the bread. I think most people associate Subway with the bread. It’s all frozen; we just heat it up here. I go home and have to take a shower, I use this shampoo that is meant to cleanse your hair and scalp because I really can’t stand the smell of the bread on me all the time.
It’s 10:38 and he hasn’t been past today. Maybe it’s his day off? I really thought I had his schedule down.
Now, it’s time for the beginning of the lunch rush. People here eat lunch early, or maybe they have just been up a long time. But for me, 11 is early for lunch, it means I’d have to eat dinner at 5. Sometimes I don’t eat lunch until 3, because of the lunch rush. So then I make some dinner at 9, before reading or watching something on Netflix.
Subway’s not a bad place to work. Peter isn’t a bad manager, and I don’t mind the meatballs. It’s temporary. The guy in the blue coat doesn’t ever eat here though. Why not, I wonder? Maybe I should transfer to a spot in the city. Maybe I’ll run into him there. But then again, everyone in the city goes around in a blue coat. Here, he’s the only one.