Literally, Genevieve Clare

An Open Letter to the Man That Runs the Tasti D-Lite On My Block

Dear Sir,

When my family goes around the table this Thanksgiving to say what we’re grateful for, your name is going to come up.

I’m grateful that you act like you have no idea who I am each time I walk into your tiny shop five times a week.  I’m grateful that we put on a complex theatrical performance night after night – with me pretending to scan the menu on the wall, and you asking if I would like a topping like I haven’t ordered the exact same god@mn thing for six months.  I’m grateful when our eyes meet across the store and you mouth “What would you like?” while foreigners are crowding me, cramming Sweedish Fish into their clear plastic bags.  I’m grateful that you continue to let me put $5.25 on my credit card each night when I’m sure it costs you more than that just to run it through your ancient dial-up machine.  I’m grateful that you don’t judge me when I walk in still sweating from a workout or when my pajamas peek out from underneath my coat just a little bit.

People say that heroes live among us.  And you sir, are mine.

I love you,

Genna