Milk

Articles

Milk

By Brian Michael Barbeito
Jun. 6, 2007

It was a small place tucked away at the end of the road. He stopped there to eat. There were only a few tables, and a man and a woman stood behind the counter. He looked at the sandwiches. The man busied himself trying to adjust a small television set that he had on a countertop. The woman waited, a bit too eagerly, for a decision about the sandwich. She indicated with a gesture of her hand that there were breakfast sandwiches there. He looked at them, and briefly considered one, but it was past one o’clock in the afternoon. He decided on a roast beef sandwich, and pointing to it, said he’d like it. Then, as the woman began to pull out the sandwich, he saw one that looked like pastrami, and told her quickly that he’d take that one instead. He was happier now, because the sandwich was one he was not merely settling for. It was made with a big sesame seed bun, unlike the rest, which were made from bread slices. She asked if he’d like anything to drink, and he said he wanted the 2% milk. He paid, and the woman warmed the sandwich. Eating and looking out the window, it was mostly pick-up trucks that came past. The cold milk felt best. There was an overcast sky, and it was unusually windy. He noticed that nobody came in and nobody came out of the front door of the small eatery. He thought that the woman made good sandwiches, because she was generous with the amount she put into them. The windows looked lonesome, unloved. The chairs were indifferent. The chairs were only chairs. There was the sound of the wind again. A woman with black hair stepped up into the driver’s side of a large white pick-up truck. The truck didn’t move though. The wind was moving faster now. The radio had said there would be a frost in the night. The radio. Radios, trucks, chairs, lonely windows. Women with black hair, hungry wind, countertop televisions, pastrami sandwiches, milk. Many things conspired to make up the world at the end of the road.

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