His hair. His lips. The faint smell of onion on his breath. Pappa “Charlie” Charles is the man everyone wants, but no one can have.
Oh, what a man. I once ordered a Nikos from Pappa and he handed it to me, a twinkle in his eyes, and said “Please don’t mind the tzaktkizi sauce covering my hands and face. I’ve just made your sandwich. It has my very heart and soul in it.” I wanted to lick that creamy goo off his perfect, chiseled jaw. I still do.
But Covid ruined everything. That chiseled jaw is covered by a cruel, cruel mask. Now I must restrain myself from lunging at my one and only true love every time he hands me a coffee that hasn’t changed price since 1983. He says he has to wear the mask until he gets a vaccine due to his weak heart (from eating too many Cornballs), but the only vaccine I need is the touch of his greasy, delicate hands as they caress my hungry lips. Now I am the one with the heart condition: a broken heart. Alas.
I know Pappa Charlie has had many lovers, but it does not dim my lust for him. Every sandwich in his store is named in honor of one of his conquests, and I would die or kill to have one named for me as well. I want that man to make love to me the way he did Dr. Strangepork. He could have me. Open faced, gluten free, any way he wants. Pappa’s choice. Damn it, I need this. How I yearn. Once Covid is over, mark my words, I will kiss Pappa Charlie on the mouth.
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