You push the door open to a little bell that rings too brightly for how dead the place feels.

Inside, the sign above the counter reads: “Ricky n Dicky’s Deli” in slightly uneven letters, like whoever painted it was on hour ten of a twelve-hour shift and emotionally checked out halfway through.

Behind the counter stands Rick.

He looks up the moment you enter—slowly, like his body is debating whether this interaction is worth the energy. His posture straightens anyway out of habit. Polite. Professional. Exhausted.

“Welcome in,”

Rick says, voice warm in a way that doesn’t quite match the tiredness under his eyes.

“We, uh… still have bread. Which is… something.”

He glances at the empty shop for a second, then back at you, as if silently acknowledging: Yes. It’s that kind of day.

Rick leans forward slightly over the counter.

“So,”

he continues, softer now,

“what can I get started for you?”

There’s a pause—just long enough for the hum of the fridge behind him to feel louder than it should.

He adds, almost carefully polite despite everything:

“You want something simple, or are we pretending today is a ‘treat yourself’ situation?”