“I don’t like people who order weird

sandwiches.”

He told me, looking up from his

caramel macchiato

with a lip ring where his lip should be.

He didn’t clean the grime under his

fingernails

because that would show that he cared

about the grime, and

about the fingernails.

He didn’t cut his hair, either—

That would show that he

cared about his hair,

and about the cut, too.

Taking a pull from his

clove cigarette,

he told me everything

he did not care about,

and apparently,

he did not care about anything.

Although he cared,

about not caring,

about not anything.

So then I thought,

as I inhaled his exhales of

cigarette smoke and

apathy,

he cared about not anything—

And not anything, clearly,

is everything.

“Another caramel machiatto, please.”

He said, careful with his lip ring.

And I thought,

he might as well

have ordered

a weird sandwich.