I wanted a Subway sandwich.

I was out shopping with my mom. The adrenaline that comes from wildly spending money, mixed with perseverance to find a bag that looked like a Givenchy Antigona without the cost, left me famished.

We found ourselves in the mall.

“Do you want Subway?” I asked, stepping into the line.

I’ll be honest. My mother had no choice. My stomach lead my heart, and my heart led my feet, and my feet led me to Subway. It was basically the plot line of every romance novel ever written.

The girl behind the counter looked like a tattooed angel in a black apron.

I ordered a six inch turkey and provolone, toasted, on herbs and cheese bread.

Lettuce. Tomato. Bell pepper. Cucumbers. Spinach. And pepperoncinis.

Always pepperoncinis.

Pepperoncinis are fantastic. They’re yellow. They’re crisp. They’re little pieces of tangy heaven with an added bite. I have a crush on pepperoncinis. I want pepperoncinis to dress up and take me to prom.

To finish it off, I asked for the chipotle sauce. The nice girl drowned my sandwich, but I didn’t care.

It was beautiful.

We paid. We left. We found a table.

But there was something questionable sticking to the side of the first table. We moved to a different table. There was an ominous grease spot. We moved again.

Finally, we sat, and my feasting commenced. The angel girl was generous with the turkey. It was warm as I bit into it.

Sauce dripped down my wrist, peachy orange with red specs.

It was delicious.

“Excuse me,” a man said, stepping toward our table.

Yes—I thought immediately, my mouth full of bread—I am enjoying this sandwich, sir. I got it from Subway. I greatly recommend it.

“Could I take these chairs? We have a couple more people coming…”

My mom replied yes.

This warranted no reply from me. I took another big bite and crinkled my eyes at him when he thanked us.

Sauce smeared across my cheek. Sauce dripped down my chin. Somehow, I got sauce barely under my eye.

Mom excused herself to get a refill, leaving me alone, just me and my sandwich and a never-ending stream of chipotle sauce.

I had a little Rebekah-Sandwich party. Everyone knows you don’t need table manners when you’re eating alone.

That’s when I noticed a couple teenage boys pointing. I shrugged. A huge slice of tomato slipped out of my sandwich, dangling from my mouth, and slapped my chin. I placed it down and wiped my face.

Yes, boys. I am a girl and I can eat.

I watched them get boa-boa drinks from a Japanese kiosk, and they disappeared.

I happily finished my sandwich, balled up the wrapper, and threw fifteen orange-stained napkins in the trash.

I was in line for Starbucks when I heard someone say, “hi.”

I laughed awkwardly. It was one of the boys I saw. I stepped away, thinking I had backed into him.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” He asked.

My mind flashed to a mouth full of bread and turkey. Sauce dripping. My pink stained fingernails.

“Yes,” I replied.

He smiled and excused himself.

Without trying, I had found the secret to man-calling. Ladies, pay attention.

Sit at a table and devour a load of messy food. Snarl a little if someone gets too close, and you’ll have men begging to be your date for Valentine’s Day.

You’re welcome.

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