Dear Subway Sandwich Artist,

This will be the last letter I write to you.

I appreciate so much of what you have done for me. I appreciate that you facilitate my Eating Fresh. I appreciate your array of fresh-baked breads, and the variety of meat, cheese, and vegetable options you provide to place within them. I am neutral on the fact that you always inquire as to whether I would like to make my sandwich into a combo.

In better times, Subway Sandwich Artist, I would visit you up to twice a week. I would order a 6-inch turkey and swiss on wheat, with tomatoes, pickles, honey-mustard—-but you know all this. You may have noticed, however, that as of late, the space between our meetings has grown long. Perhaps you’re wondering why I don’t come around much anymore. I’m sorry I never took the time to talk to you about this in person, but I think I can best express myself through this blog entry.

Subway Sandwich Artist, why are you so creepy?

Why do you see each step of our sandwich creation process as an opportunity to make borderline inappropriate comments accompanied by piercing eye contact? Why do you insist upon searching through the tray of tomatoes to find the “real good tomatoes”—-“just for me”? Why do you always ask, as my sandwich approaches completion, if I’d like mayonnaise, knowing full well that I do not? Why do you stroke my hand ever-so-slightly when you hand me my change? Is it but a game to you?

Subway Sandwich Artist, why do you look at me in that special way when you ask if I want a 6-inch or a foot-long?


Amanda Hess