late lunch - Sarah Butkovic

a man is sitting down in those types of patio chairs whose wrought iron lattice designs dig into your back at odd angles — the price of looking beautiful. he orders a sandwich but before it can be brought out there’s the sound of metal on metal, teeth grinding, chair legs on an unwaxed wooden floor. water continues to crackle over ice cubes in the drinks being poured all around him, but the man is out of his seat at once, flip-flops flattening small pebbles on the pothole-infested road. the harder he runs, the more it feels like he’s walking on pool noodles. meanwhile, the waiter delivers a warm reuben to an empty table. down the block two people are turning themselves into bruised fruit, the kind of apples and pears that remain on the bodega display for weeks, unpicked, always shuffling around as customers hunt for the type of plastic-looking produce that belongs in ikea kitchen displays. by the time the man arrives, the fight is over. it is unclear whether or not a score has been settled — nor is it certain who the winner is. both assailants are glistening, covered in the glitter of their own sweat, faces dented and knuckles dipped in cherry paint. the only thing left for the man to do is stand there, breathing into the air conditioning unit in the window of the first-floor apartment behind him. he looks wistful as the fighters leave, stalking off in opposite directions like back alley phantasms. it’s only at this moment the man realizes his reuben has probably gotten cold.