I always ruin everything by saying something stupid.
When the wave of nausea finally passed me I put the crumbled napkin back into my jean pockets.
"You alright?"
"I thought I needed to sneeze."
Lies. All lies. But I can’t tell you that, can I? I crouched down and my knees fucking hurt. Sliding open the door the same wave of nausea came back. The fridge has a faint lingering smell of stale milk and sour yogurt like the one my mom makes. It’s fine, I am fine. It’s all fucking fine. You’re looming over me half aware and I am sticking my head in the fridge to see if I can remember any Russian to read the drink flavors to you. I can’t and this wasn’t supposed to be like this.
"Uh… do you want a bright green or a pale yellow soda?" I forced a laugh and you just smiled at me. It looked like pee if I’m honest. Now I have to pee. I kept looking at the fridge half tempted to grab the unassuming bottle of coke when I saw dadu’s. Poppy seed farmer cheese covered in dark chocolate. My stomach churned again at the thought, the smell, and without really meaning to I slammed the fridge door shut.
You stared at me for a moment. Expecting some sort of explanation. Why are you looking at me like that?
"I realized I was letting the cold out, it’s still summer, I wouldn’t want to—" You’re not listening to me anymore. Your back is turned to me looking at wafers on the top shelf used to make cakes. But you wouldn’t know that. I want to yell at you to look at me. But I don’t. I don’t know what to do actually. I look back at the fridge, I want to leave, but I can’t tell you that right? You’re happy, I like that you’re happy. I want you to enjoy this. Eventually I rationalize I should get you the bright green soda. No idea what it is, what it could be, what it might be, but it sounds medicinal. And you’re weird. You like medicinal flavors. Sometimes I want to ask you if you spent most of your childhood sick.
"Maybe you’ll like this."
"Do you know where to order?"
How the fuck would I know that? This is my first time here. Why am I here WITH YOU?
"Maybe by the counter?"
You nodded and we walked through the aisle where the register is and migrated to where the sausages are kept in a display fridge. Somewhere at the bottom are stuffed cabbages, pierogies, and containers of soup. Borscht, pickle soup, pickle salad, just pickles. I feel sick again. You looked around until you noticed a menu taped to the side of a counter, barely legible, barely there, like how you’re barely here with me. I want to get closer to you, but I’m scared I’ll throw up on your shoes and you’ll never want to see me again.
"What are you ordering?" I asked, trying to make conversation because if I don’t talk, you won’t talk, and I want us to talk. So fucking bad. We’re not nearly close enough to sit in comfortable silence. All of our silences are uncomfortable and pregnant.
Is this morning sickness? Could I even have morning sickness? Can you catch that if you’re around someone pregnant? I want to google it. I should google it.
"Uh… I think I am going to get a hot sandwich?"
Probably the vaguest possible name for a sandwich. You weren’t sure what it was yourself. I nod and look around, and what the fuck do I want? Well, I want you but you’re still not looking at me.
I’d order pierogies, but that's Polish, and the lady at the counter is an older Russian woman so I should say vereniki but I’m not sure how to pronounce that. I feel unsure of everything lately, especially when I’m around you. But I can’t tell you that either, it’ll be weird. Weirder. Like this isn’t weird enough as is.
I’m panicking at this point because both you and the Russian woman are staring at me waiting for me to fucking order and what the fuck is it that I want? Everything has pork. I don’t eat pork, there's a sandwich called the Jew but that has beef liver and I hate liver. I can’t pronounce half of the shit on the menu either. You keep staring at me and… Are you embarrassed?
Maybe I am embarrassing. I stare at the menu for half a second more before blurting out the first thing I can make out. "Yeah, I’ll uh, have the Polish."
I COULD’VE SAID PIEROGIES AND SHE PROBABLY WOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN FUCKING MAD IF THEY HAVE A SANDWICH CALLED POLISH WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I CAN’T STAND IT, WHY CAN’T I—
"Hey," you called out and somehow you’re on the other side of the store that’s far too small, and smells too much like yogurt. "Look, they have raspberry tea. You like that right?"
"Yeah, I love raspberry tea." That’s also a lie. Why do I keep lying to you? What's wrong with me? I hate tea. I keep telling you I hate tea and you never listen and it just feels easier now to tell you that I do like tea. I can’t remember when was the last time I actually drank tea.
"You should get a box."
"Maybe next time, actually do you want chocolate? I saw a couple of containers. Maybe you’ll like them."
You say nothing and walk to the area of the deli I was talking about. I feel like I’m going mad. Maybe I watch too much British TV. We have circled this 30 by 20 deli about 4 times already.
"What’s your favorite?"
I stood there looking through the containers debating if I even liked them. I don’t like sweets, but I like you. I reached into a container and pulled a chocolate out with blueberry filling. Okay, so maybe I do remember some Russian.
Still, I feel bad for you. I feel bad for us. I feel bad for the half melted matryoshka doll chocolates that sit at the bottom of the shelf that no one seems to pick. They’re waiting, like how I’m waiting.
"These are cute, my cousin collects matryoshka dolls. He’d probably like these."
"What?"
"Matryoshkas?"
"I think they call those Russian nesting dolls here."
I forced a smile, putting back the half melted chocolate and picked out other ones at random. I hope you don’t like any of them. I hope there's somehow one in here that has coconut and you’ll be upset later tonight you had a coconut chocolate.
You asked me if I’m grabbing any and I shook my head. I don’t really want to talk to you anymore.
We circled around the deli again and you stopped in front of the greeting cards. They're overbearing and gaudy. Bright colors and messages that take up almost the entire page and that makes you laugh. You ask me to translate, and I feel like I can’t read again. This time, I ignore you, and you don’t seem to notice.
"They have condensed milk. Maybe you should buy a can."
"I don’t know what I’d do with it."
"I thought you liked it in your coffee."
So you do remember stuff about me. I could fall for you.
You start to walk again and I grab the condensed milk. Would you think it was weird if I told you I had a crush on the cartoon cow on the can of condensed milk? I still remember her commercials. We’re lingering waiting for the lady to bring the sandwiches and how much longer can we look at Russian snacks?
We end up back in front of the display fridge where the sausages are kept along with soup, salad, stuffed cabbage, and the fucking pierogies I wanted. You’re looking to the right at more snacks and I’m mugging the pierogies.
"What are these?" You practically shoved a small blue bag into my hands that had a picture of cheese and salmon on the front.
"Kirieshki."
"Huh?"
"They’re rye rusks. Like croutons."
"Which one is your favorite?"
I looked at the shelf and held out a green bag towards you, this one was far more menacing than the blue bag with cheese and salmon. The package had a picture of kholodets. You looked at me confused again, and before you could ask I decide to explain. Because I’m nice, because I know you so well, even if you know nothing about me.
"It’s meat in bone broth, it turns gelatinous and is served cold."
"Sounds… interesting."
You looked mildly grossed out and reached for a bag that had red caviar on the front. Why did I bring you here? I feel embarrassed and I don’t know how to handle being embarrassed.
I pulled the napkin out of my jean pocket and held it to my mouth waiting for another wave of nausea to pass me.
"Sneeze?"
"Something like that."
"I think I have zyrtec if you want any."
"No, I'm fine."
Things are awkward between us again. Why are things always awkward? I really want to vomit but there’s no bathroom, and the front store is just glass. You’ll see me if I decide to relieve myself in the parking lot.
This isn’t morning sickness. I know that now at least. I googled if you could catch it. (You can’t.)
I held the napkin to my mouth and I swear I can taste something bitter and sour at the back of my throat while you ask me about meringues. Why does this deli smell like fucking yogurt?
"I know they're diet food now or something. I saw them a lot on weightloss accounts."
"Why are you watching stuff like that?"
"Do you want an ice cream?"
You made a face. I made a face. We’re both making faces at each other in the small deli and I’m scared the lady will be back out with the sandwiches and she’ll think I’m disgusted with the store and I’m not. I just really want to know why it smells like yogurt in here, and I don’t think I’ll ever get an answer to that.
I can’t remember why we're here anymore, but you agreed to the ice cream.
We circle around the store. AGAIN. How long does it take to make two sandwiches? We’re standing in front of a different fridge with labels for frozen goods. I opened it because I am the braver one of the two of us. And I would open all the stale milk and sour scented fridges first in the world so you don’t have to. However, I almost regret opening the fridge first because there’s more fucking dadu’s and I want to kill myself. I really do.
"What’s dadu?"
Did I say that aloud? "They're a Lithuanian brand, they make ice cream and cheesecake bars." Farmer cheese covered in chocolate… But I won’t tell you that part, you might want to try it and I can’t live with that. Or the smell of farmers cheese.
"I thought this was a Russian deli."
"The Russian deli looks like they never left the Soviet union. There was pickled white cabbage on the shelf by the condensed milk, and that's Belarusian. They’d probably have Estonian cookies if you look hard enough too."
I couldn’t help but snort as I looked inside the freezer. I was so angry about the dadu’s even being there that I didn’t notice they were seated next to bags of overpriced ice.
"What’s so funny?"
"Haha, the dadu is next to the ice."
You said nothing and stared at me.
"They’re Lithuanian treats, next to the ice? Those unians love their ice cubes." I’m practically in hysterics. You just stare. "MITM?" You raised an eyebrow at me and you look at me like you think I need to be committed.
It stopped being funny. I grabbed a cheesecake bar and threw it in the basket and said nothing. We should circle the deli again. See if I can find something else to embarrass myself with.
Like a saving grace the elder Russian is back holding two styrofoam to go containers. She smiled at me and led us to the tables pushed against the glass of the front of the deli insisting we sit.
I stared at her a little too long, she almost looked like my grandmother and I almost cried. She noticed me staring at her and held a fork out towards me. "For the hot sandwich. It is better with a fork." She smiled and walked back behind the counter.
I handed you the fork and you peered your head around like a meerkat. "Shouldn’t we pay first?"
"Uh… I can go but this is normal where…" I don’t want to finish the sentence. I don’t want you to think I’m different. You smiled at me again and sat across from me. You looked out at the parking lot and I looked above your head at fliers for a ballet show. The table has a gaudy cloth that could rival the cards from earlier. Red and white checkered pattern with bright yellow sunflowers and milk bottles.
I’m still staring at the flier above your head as you start to eat. They look like they’re from the 90’s, and we’re not going to be together in our 90’s are we?
You’re not going to eat?" You asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I looked back at you. There’s Russian dressing at the corner of your mouth and the smell hits me. The warm chicken cutlet mixed topped with cabbage and dressing. I bit my lip trying to ignore the smell.
Why is everything making me feel ill today?
I opened my own container and it’s moments like this I’m happy I keep a google doc with my suicide note. There’s bacon and ham on the fucking sandwich. I don’t eat pork and AREN’T A LOT OF POLISH PEOPLE JEWISH?
Am I making that up? I should google that too. But I don’t want to touch my phone in front of you, again.
"Are you okay?"
Fuck no.
"Yeah."
You tried to hand me your pickle. You remembered I like pickles.
Do you… want to marry me?
I shook my head. No really, the gesture means the absolute world to me. But if that vinegar smell gets any closer I might actually be sick.
"So, you must like history a lot."
"Hm?"
"I’m just saying. You knew the name of a bunch of countries that were a part of the Soviet Union."
The American education system failed you. "Uh… it’s just general knowledge I think. Like the communist slogan, ‘Workers of the world unite.’"
"That’s the slogan?"
"Yeah, it’s in the communist manifesto."
"You’re a communist?"
"What? No, I mean, in theory, sure. I have heart, but it’s not… Well, it’s hard to not like. Take what Parenti said,"
You cut me off. "Who?"
"Michael Parenti, a political scientist. He explained how Castro built more hospitals around Cuba. There was a village that told Parenti that if someone got sick they needed 20 people to take the person to the hospital. They would walk day and night for three days to get to the nearest hospital but they’d usually die before they’d get there. Castro built a hospital in the village. There's pride in it, more people learned how to read under Castro. They were free, like actually free."
You stared at me. Confused again. I’m starting to think that maybe your face just looks like that.
"No, it’s a big deal. Do you know what it means to not be able to read?"
"I struggled reading when I was in Elementary school."
"No it’s different when you’re older. I was in ESL until I was 14. I was an animal." I explained minimally.
"Yeah…"
Why did I call myself an animal?
Actually, no, fuck you. There is pride there in that. I’m not a bad person for saying that. Learning English was hard, and it cost me my mother tongue. I held one half of my sandwich and took a bite. This is the first time I ate pork in years, it’s salty, the bacon is soggy, it’s cold and the mustard is overbearing. Like my mother. Like Parenti. Like you.
But I eat when I’m angry. Well, more like binge. I continued taking bites, half chewing and half thinking. I nearly choked on a piece of ham.
The smell is starting to gross me out again and I have to put the sandwich down. You’re nearly done with your sandwich and you stare at me.
"Not hungry?" You asked me, like you even care. You spent most of the trip ignoring me.
"Actually, I don’t eat pork."
"What?"
Why do you keep saying what? Why do I keep saying stupid things? Why did I tell you I don’t eat pork even after I ate a ham and bacon sandwich fast enough I nearly choked?
"Do you want to try the dadu?"
"Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"You keep changing the subject."
I swallowed hard. My mouth keeps filling up with saliva faster than I can swallow and this is it isn’t it? I reached for the cheesecake bar and unwrapped it. The chocolate is already starting to melt and it smells just as bad as the fridge from earlier with the farmer cheese. Still, I force myself to take a bite. If I close my eyes this could almost not bother me.
"Sometimes, I don’t know what to say." Why do I keep lying to you? If anything, I have too many things to say. I want to say everything all at once when I’m with you.
You nod and finish your sandwich. I handed you the rest of the cheesecake bar, and you ate that too. You enjoyed it far more than I did. Could you learn to enjoy me like that too?
"Do they have the cake you were talking about?"
"Eh?"
"The honey cake, the one I said, tasted like baklava. You got super pissy when I said that, I think you ignored my texts for a week."
I did do that, didn't I? "Oh, um, I could ask. Did you want a slice?"
"No, I thought you did."
There’s another pregnant pause.
We’d probably have four kids by now with all the pregnant pauses we have. I’m never like this, I usually talk so much people have to ask me to shut up. Why am I acting like this now? I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed about being in a deli together, if I have food poisoning, or if there’s something profoundly wrong with me. It’s probably the latter. It’s most likely the latter. It is the latter. There is something wrong with me, isn't there? There’s so many things I desperately want to tell you about too. I want to point out the Latvian pickles I see right behind you, I want to explain to you what the wafers are meant for, I want to correct you about the ‘nesting dolls.’ I want to tell you I think about you all the time. No, literally, sometimes you’re the only cohesive thought in my head late at night when I have Russian porn on my browser—
"Hey, did you hear anything I said?"
Oh fuck. I didn’t. What did you say? What didn’t you say? Is it the food? Did you want the soda? Did you want another dadu? Did you want me? No, not me. Tea? I feel like I’m sweating now, and I wish it was socially acceptable to take up day drinking. I’m cooler when I’m drunk. Better. Funnier.
But you wouldn’t know that. Every time I invited you out to the bar you declined. Which is why it’s beyond me why we’re here, together, in Costa Mesa, at a RUSSIAN deli. Why are there Russians in Southern California? Actually no, why am I here? If I run fast enough, I can ditch you. I know I could. I should. I could vomit in my car and never see you again. I’d probably be happier for it too.
"Sorry, I zoned out. I was thinking about class."
I stared at you. Maybe a little too intense. Your face flushed a pale red. I want to tell you something stupid, like I love you. Like I have been in love with you since we first met, that you’re the last page of Bleak House. But the only thing I can really think about is how much my stomach hurts right now.
"Are you okay?"
"Well…" I’ve been waiting for something this entire time. Now I don’t know what to say, and I want to tell you I picked out chocolates with the intention of you not liking it. I want to tell you that there's Russian dressing on your bottom lip. I also want to tell you that this deli smells like my mom’s yogurt and I hate her yogurt. And those pierogies would taste better than these sandwiches.
"Have you ever read The Sun Also Rises?"
You’re my Brett, I’m Jake, and I’m not nearly brave enough to tell you I’m half in love with you. Maybe, on better days this would have been enough. At least, isn’t it pretty to think so?
You looked at me even more confused and now I know for a fact I’m sweating despite sitting under the AC vent.
"What?"
"Never mind. I’m not good with stuff like this."
You look even more worried now. I think you notice me sweating too. You reached over with a clean napkin to wipe away some sweat I had on my forehead and I want to tell you that you really should be using that napkin to clean your own face instead. My stomach churns again when your hands are near my face. They smell like chicken cutlet and chocolate, which mixes with the stale milk smell the deli has and I can’t do this anymore.
"Are you not going to say anything about what I said then…?" You asked and your voice was debased and I hate seeing you this sad. I can’t say anything about what you just said. I have no idea what you did say. And really this is my moment. I spent the past two years of knowing you waiting for the perfect time to tell you I like you, that I’m half in love with you, and that I really am Frank Sinatra spoiling stuff by saying dumb shit. It wasn’t until now did I realize there is no perfect time. You can’t really plan for stuff like this. Eventually, you have to take a leap of faith. Which is scary. Everything about this is scary. Including the Russian dressing on your lip. Seriously, do you not feel that?
I took a deep breath. I’m fine. I'm fine. I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything in the letter I had committed to memory waiting for an opportunity like this. My opportunity.
And this was the first honest thing that came out of my mouth since we came to the deli. I looked at you as earnestly as I could.
"I really have to vomit."
