The BLT monster

Karen held the soft bread like a delicate flower as she caressed it with mayonnaise. Her spatula passionately crisped three slices of bacon. The dew of freshly cut lettuce glistened in her eyes.

All I asked for was a BLT, not a gourmet sandwich.

I sat there dumbfounded, looking at her apply unbreakable intensity to her artwork. I calculated 15 minutes to receive a finished BLT. Karen drove my patience nuts; the train was leaving in five minutes.

Karen spread mayo on the golden bread with a smile, slowly and steading, ensuring each square inch was covered. She was a a relief from the stoic Pepito's ladies who made burritos as if it were a personal vendetta.

Six minutes into the BLT orgy, my thoughts ran amok. What if Karen were my boss -- she'd could perfect me in the art of making a BLT. The thought was sweet for 5 seconds, then came sweat.

"I need the BLT quickly," I alarmingly told Karen.

"Pepsi?" she replied, "75 cents."

Her hands paused making the BLT. No!

"Quickly," I said. Her eyes twitched, she seemed a bit flustered.

"Hurry?" she asked, with her hands twirling like train wheels.

"Yes!" I shouted, in joy. She finally understood me.

Suddenly, she turned into a bad ass, like the burrito women. Her smile disappeared, the eyes narrowed, and the bread crumbs and lettuce dropping didn't matter anymore.

She connected the two bread slices, amused by the crunching sound of crushed bacon.

Shazaam, there was the BLT monster.