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By Rose Gowen On Saturday afternoons the old men of our neighborhood go to the deli to buy cold cuts for after church on Sunday. Our wives send us, and we are glad to go because Nadia is there on Saturday afternoons. Sweet Nadia, who is seventeen and has no idea what she does. The trick is to order each thing seperately, to make it last longer. Start with, a quarter pound of American cheese. She pulls on a fresh pair of gloves, and once she has sliced and wrapped your cheese, she'll hover, leaning over the deli case, returning the block of cheese, looking your way with the neck of her shirt falling open so nicely, so nicely, and say "Anything else?" Then you say "Umm, yes, yes a quarter pound of bologna." As if you had just now on a whim decided that you would like some bologna, as if your wife hadn't made you recite and repeat back to her the grocery list, just fifteen minutes ago. The way she slices the meats, Nadia, she gets you. She hefts the big pink bologna out of the case and carries it at shoulder-level over to the meat cutter. She puts her back into the work, and from behind you can see a bit of her spine that the bottom of her shirt leaves bare, and her hips going in and in as she pushes the bologna into the spinning blade. Order ham, turkey and liverwurst to watch Nadia's hips; it makes your teeth hurt and your tongue curl under and your saliva run to watch those young hips, and the pink slices of meat falling into her hand under the blade. If she pauses to wipe a strand of hair away from her face with her shoulder, or if it is hot and there is a shine on the back of her smooth neck, it will almost be too much you will almost be tempted to say "Thank you, dear, that's enough," but you won't. If you would like to link to this story, please use this link. | ||
