Once upon a time, on a hill in a saintly city, there were two vegetarians slicing meat in a deli.
As is so often the case in stories like this, they were not looking for love.
They were in recovery from the lives they had so far lived, and both were content to spin salad, restock snapple, grind coffee, and of course, slice meat.
Slimy stinky meat, funny looking meat, and meat that did not even pretend to be something it was not: tongue.
The vegetarians worked hard, unlike the hipsters and hucksters to their right and their left, and this was likely the first sign of a future affiliation beyond the doors of the delicatessen.
But neither was looking for love.
If their shifts aligned and they found themselves standing side by side at the sandwich counter during the lunch rush, waiting customers might have seen a spark. They found no need for words as they passed pitas and slices of swiss according to the slips of paper pinned above them while they prepared perfectly portioned pastrami and chicken salad sandwiches.
And cleaned as they went.
And restocked before the bins were empty.
It was love, not that they were looking for it.
One day, one of the vegetarians found herself standing by the coat rack.
She had worked the opening shift alone, in the peace and quiet of pre dawn, and was gathering her very few belongings when she saw a sweater newly hung.
The other vegetarian had just arrived for the midday shift.
The thin cardigan with patches and buttons could belong to no one else.
And she leaned toward it and inhaled deeply. Twice. She was not looking for love.
But when two vegetarians are slicing meat in a deli…