He slumped over his cold cut special with extra pickles and no onions, it was almost as boring the book he’d dogeared and shut. Was this all there was to look forward to? Windy days in the corner eating a sub sandwich before tottling down the block back to his apartment? He had tried taking the sandwich home, upselling it with the idea of deep draw from a shimmering glass of Pinot Noir. But then last Wednesday night he’d follow up the sandwich with the rest of the bottle and woe is me menopausal dramas on cable television. Why couldn’t she see that her boyfriend was the murderer? Did she sit in a Subway at the train station and just decide it was her fate? Did she sip on a Diet Sunrise Soda and think “I wonder who he’s murdering now? But he’s so cute?!” He hoped her ‘sandwich artist’ had remembered no onions and not tried to forcibly toast it. Nobody likes it toasted. nobody.