Solace in a New York Deli

In all the health and love I'm lucky enough to experience, I'm not often pulled back through my haze of memories to those gray streets of Brooklyn. But when they hit, boy, do they sting.

I think of how handsome I thought my ex looked against the snow.

I think of the gloves I bought and how angry he became when I presented them on my birthday dinner.

I think of how desperate I was to hold onto you, because the good times were so good.

I think of our last night together. When you screamed at me so long and hit me so hard the night broke into pink, and the morning urged me to leave you.

Those painful memories must have lessened over the years. Because now, when I recall my terrible life in Brooklyn, I think most of the bagel I ate at 2 in the morning when I decided to try and stop loving you.

I had blocked you and disappeared from your world. I snuck back into our apartment when you went to work, stole the belongings I had left that you hadn't destroyed, and ran away to my grandfather's home in Long Island.

I had nearly forgotten your name, since I'm 11 years in love with another who doesn't fill my heart with fear. I hadn't any need to remember you.

In my comfort, I had forgotten how easily I could break.

I forgot how pathetically I stayed.

I forgot how my body was a tool and a toy.

I forgot how exhilarating abuse can feel as the night dragged on and the chaos unfolded like a grand Shakespearean drama.

But you found me again. A new account and the same, stupidly handsome face.

Your message said I was a bitch, a hateful, crazy witch who, in leaving, ruined all the good things in your life. You claimed I was the one who abandoned you that day in the snow. It must have been my birthday. I thought the gloves were nice, but you said I was trying to one-up you, since your only gift to me was the promise to no longer be mean. You said couples fight and that's normal. It was my tears and shaking body that was wrong. You said I was always looking down on you. And because of my wicked ways, you had no choice but to put me in my place.

I blocked your new account after showing the heated, one-sided debate to my husband.

It was a little funny. How pathetic you still are.

I had no idea I held such power.

And with the man I love, we laughed.

Your words, before I deleted them, brought me back to that pink morning in Brooklyn. You had marched off after our fight, cussing slurs into the blackened slush at your feet. I knew you were heading back to our apartment, but I was frozen in the snow and knew if I followed the way you wanted me to, I would never be brave enough to leave.

I stared into the street until you were gone. The sky was pitch black, but the Italian restaurant's light glowed orange. The hostess, a beautiful woman from Uzbekistan, pulled my arm and led me back into the restaurant. It was only then that I saw the gloves left behind on the table.

She told me she saw everything. Which means she saw you scream, saw you insult my taste, and saw me flinch but stand still as your hand struck my forehead.

The woman from Uzbekistan offered to call me a taxi. The tears were hot on my cheek as I told her, I had nowhere to go.

She told me to sit in the booth, and I stayed there till closing, picking at the pleather cushions and avoiding eye contact with the staring patrons. When she finished her hostess duties, she and a waitress took my arm in kindness and led me to a deli down the street.

It was a small place, with colorful posters peppering the walls. The worker greeted us with a simple nod, as if it were morning. I wasn't from the city; I didn't know what to get. So I nodded to each suggestion and felt ashamed when they refused to take my money. There was a white cat stretching beside the counter. Her well-kept fur was a sign of how carefully she was loved. The sight of her made my heart plunge with homesickness and regret.

The woman from Uzbekistan unwrapped the paper from the bagel and placed the treat in my hands. She insisted the salmon was fresh, no matter what anyone from Manhattan tried to say.

Scared and tired, I barely had the energy to eat. But I did.

The salty bread, so crispy and warm, somehow made the perfect path for the savory fish and sweet cream cheese to dance. A pungent punch of chives and poppy seeds enhanced the rhythm. It was harmony. Soft, indulgent, and spectacular in the way I had always imagined New York City to be.

I must have eaten it fast, because the woman from Uzbekistan laughed and ordered a few bags of barbecue chips to share. She offered me some chocolate, but I couldn't accept.

The women shared stories of past lovers of equally entitled men who never learned the importance of kindness. They fussed over my youth and told me life was too short to waste on those who mistreat us.

The taste of the bagel lingered as the sky lightened outside. I could not keep them from sleep forever, so I reassured them I'd never go back. In the silver reflection of the napkin container, I could see a purple bruise forming on my temple.

As we left the deli, the white cat bowed a goodbye.

The woman from Uzbekistan hugged me tight, and only when I walked off did I notice the Snickers bar in my pocket.