Playing Pretend

I love New York

There has never beeen a day in the history of Katz Delicatessen did it have any vacant seats. New Yorkers and tourists flock inside the shop and demand for its delicious pastrami sandwiches and platters.

I remember standing in front of this shop one lovely evening just like tonight three years ago when I almost melted as the sweet, juicy fragrance of pastrami traveled its way up my nostrils.

I sighed blissfully, "Ah, heaven in New York."

The door opened and a man with auburn hair came out with an armful of takeout. I wondered if it was for a big family thing or for a hectic study night before finals as that man looked like he was about to feed an army before entering a war. My stomach grumbled and without further ado, I went inside the shop and ordered solo pastrami.

After I left the shop, I saw the same man with auburn hair eating with a homeless family nearby. I watched them closely to check if he was in any way related to any of the family members but saw no resemblance. And my heart fluttered at his generosity and kindness.

He finished eating with them and bid them goodbye. He turned around and before I could even pretend I wasn't watching, he caught my eyes. I rummaged inside my back as if looking for my phone when I felt him stand next to me. I held my breath.

"With all the blessings that I have, I don't see any problem sharing them to those who less,"

He beamed at me and my heart dropped down to my heels. His smile glistened in the night sky. Damn it. He looked even more handsome up close.

"I'm Clarence. And you are?"

... in pain, Clarence, in pain. Stupid pastrami, stupid smile, and stupid of me to fall in love with you that night. Now I can't even come here at Katz without remembering you. I shake the memory and with a deep sigh, I remove my eyes from the shop's front and proceed to continue walking.

"Can we not eat here?"

Tristan looks at me with such profound sadness and longing.

"But this is the best sandwich place in New York," He declares. "How can you not like it here?"

Tristan begs like five year old throwing tantrums. Our five minute walk in search of a good sandwich place allowed me to know a few things about him.

One, his name is Tristan Scott. Two, he lives in a penthouse in the Upper East Side but doesn't want to tell me exactly where. Three, he's a multimillionaire but doesn't disclose what he does. Four, there's no evident sign of bruising on his head. Thank God. And five, he likes Drake.

He continues, "Look at all that roast beef just waiting to be devoured!"

I shake his head. "Can you just take me home then go eat alone after?"

"I can't. I'm really hungry right now," He explains. "I skipped dinner because that hag I was on a blind date with is horrible. Wouldn't let me eat because she's not eating and because she's talking, I am obligated to talk as well. Apparently, it's just rude to listen and eat."

His voice goes from mildly annoyed to practically yelling as he rants. "And to make matters worse, I got hit by a shoe while trying to be a good Samaritan. I could have brain damage!"

Way to bring up the guilt card.

"I have nothing against your way of acquiring potential lifetime partners but there's a thing called Tinder so you don't have to deal with shitty blind dates."

"Don't you think I know that? I didn't set this up," He grumbles. "My secretaries and lawyers did all of this and all of their suggestions are awful. I don't even want to tell you, you'd be traumatized."