21/02/2026: Thank you to Maylan for his professionalism and kindness.
14/02/2026: In the warm scent of freshly baked bread,
under the neon lights that hum like a docile swarm,
there's Lenny.
Lenny from Subway
Lenny in the green apron,
Lenny with hands as swift as swallows in summer.
He works while the city is still yawning,
when the shop windows have the pale glow of rushed mornings,
when the first customers enter
with hunger still clinging to their eyelids.
And already his fingers are dancing.
They glide over the Italian bread,
open the crumb with a sure hand,
lay the lettuce like a fresh rain,
line up the red tomatoes like miniature suns,
dash the mustard into golden flashes.
He's fast, Lenny.
Not fast like you're running away,
but fast like you're in control.
His hands know the choreography:
cheese, ham, turkey, avocado,
a drizzle of sauce, a smile offered. The knife never trembles,
the scales never waver,
the paper curls into a perfect cylinder
as if the sandwich were a secret
to be shared with the world.
And Lenny is handsome.
Not handsome like a mannequin frozen in a shop window,
but handsome like a focused young man,
with a rebellious lock of hair that sometimes falls
over his warm forehead,
and which he pushes back with the back of his wrist
without stopping work.
He has clear eyes
—eyes that truly listen
when a customer hesitates—
and a mouth made for smiling,
even when the line stretches
all the way to the swinging door.
At noon, it's a whirlwind.
Orders fly:
"Teriyaki chicken!"
"No onions!"
Double cheese!"
The tickets pile up
like nervous autumn leaves.
But Lenny doesn't falter.
He speeds up.
His hands become wind.
His gestures, music.
It's as if he's weaving something
invisible and precise,
a tapestry of sure movements
where each element finds its place.
He works well.
Not well in the way one ticks a box,
not well in the way one pretends,
but well with that silent pride
that straightens the back
and illuminates the shoulders
It must be increased urgently.
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