Arthur

The deli is fluorescent in a way that makes everything look slightly embalmed. Even the prosciutto glistens like it’s aware of its own preservation. There is something honest about a butcher though, a timeless craft. Were there butcher’s guilds? He nods at me as if we’ve met before. Residing in a small town, stories of people circulate in a way that doesn’t exist in a city. People know people here, they ARE in your business, because you ARE in theirs.

“Arthur,” he says, reading my card as he runs it. But he says it like he’s known me longer than the ten seconds it took for the machine to approve the transaction.

“Yeah,” I respond, and for a moment it feels like deja-vu. Or perhaps it’s the opposite. “That didn’t happen”, I tell myself. We’ve never met. He just read the name.

I ask for provolone. Thin. Not shaved. Sheets that can breathe. There’s an art to the layering of cheese, like linen folded properly so it doesn’t wrinkle. Organic products, ideally. He places each slice down with mechanical indifference. No wax paper between them. I consider saying something but don’t. There are larger battles in the world than dairy adhesion.

He wraps the meat separately. Salami. Nitrates. Preservation as insurance against decay. When you salt meat it can last for years, but in a refrigerator it wilts within a week. Artificial cold. Artificial light. Artificial urgency. We invented time-stamps because we lost patience. Would I be able to develop a system where time ticks by the amount of entries and exits through the door rather than the sun revolving around the earth?

He tapes the receipt across the zipper of the plastic bag. A small tyranny. To open it later I will have to tear through proof of purchase, as if consumption requires documentation even after digestion.

Outside, it IS 72 degrees. Fresh air moves differently near the ocean; it has memory in it. The sun rests easily on my shoulders. Vitamin D feels less like a supplement and more like forgiveness. Sunglasses with an orange tint soften the world into something cinematic. Limitless, almost. As if I might remember how to be the version of myself that exists only in flashes, time flatters instead of erodes.

The butcher’s tape lingers in my thoughts. Why did I not ask for the paper between the cheese? It is such a small assertion. Perhaps I am conserving my voice for something larger. Or perhaps I have grown accustomed to unsticking things later. No Matter.

I walk toward the cliffs. Minor ones. Nothing heroic. Denim rolled twice at the ankle. The Jesus shoes slap lightly against pavement. The ocean looks rehearsed, like it knows its lines. Blue in a way that convinces you the sky is a reflection rather than the source. The source is the opposite of the color we see.

Alice is already there.

Green eyes. Freckles scattered without symmetry, which makes them honest. Light brown hair pulled back but never fully contained. A linen shirt half tucked, beach towel draped over her shoulder. She turns as if she sensed me before she saw me.

“You look different,” she says.

“Better or worse?”

“Saltier,” she replies.

We laugh. One of my favorite joys in life is a false binary being shattered. It’s unclear if we are meeting for the first time or continuing a conversation that began years ago in another climate. Chicago winters. Cigarettes outside of a bar. The cold teaching us the value of heat. I remember denim jackets layered over wool, the smell of smoke woven permanently into cotton fibers. Polyester holds scent differently. It doesn’t forgive. Get that away from me.

Alice steps closer to the edge of the cliff. “Are you going to overthink it,” she asks, “or jump?”

There are moments when analysis becomes an anchor. All this analyzing, not crystallizing. More salt. Less oil.

I jump.

The water is colder than expected but only for a second. Then it becomes a second skin. My hair slicks back naturally, the way it does when the ocean decides for you. I surface and she’s laughing.

I float there. Consumption is suspended. No nitrates. No microplastics. Just salt and sun and breath.

The difficult part is getting back to the ledge which is why she didn’t jump. If we both do, it’ll be half an hour of our limbs battling for leverage, I am always concerned she’ll slip, the rocks are sharp. She prefers walking into the water from the sand.

“Do you ever feel like you’re repeating yourself?” she asks.

“In what sense?”

“Like you’ve had this exact thought before.”

I want to say no. But there’s something about the way the light hits her shoulder that feels rehearsed. The exact degree of warmth. The precise itch in my eyes from pollen. The way the butcher said my name.

“That didn’t happen,” I say finally, though I’m not sure which part I’m referring to.

Later, back at the apartment, I place the bag on the counter. The receipt tears as expected. A clean rip across the total. I open the cheese and the slices cling to each other like reluctant siblings. I try to peel them apart gently but they stretch, warp, lose shape.

I should have said something.

Alice is toweling her hair dry near the window. Sunshine outlines her like a halo.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Just the cheese.”

She smiles in a way that suggests the cheese is not the issue.

That night I dream of the deli. Fluorescent hum. The butcher nodding. “Arthur,” he says again, and I cannot tell if it is greeting or accusation.

Morning comes with the same 72-degree promise. The same faint tingle in my nose. The same linen shirt draped over the chair. I consider slacks, choose denim. Jesus shoes again.

Phone, keys, wallet.

Quick errand to the butcher then my day really will start.

The deli is fluorescent in a way that makes everything look slightly embalmed. The butcher nods at me as if we’ve met before.