Metropolitan Diary: Farewell, Sammy the Deli Man My heart is broken. How could he have done this to me? His name is Sammy and I met him two years ago. Each weekday morning I would leave my apartment and take the subway to 28th Street. Like all good New Yorkers, I would avoid eye contact. I speak to no one. No one speaks to me. When I surfaced, I would walk to the corner cafe. It has a buffet, multiple racks of snacks, a soup bar and a deli department. That is where I met Sammy - standing behind the deli counter, dressed in snow white, eager to serve. Shortly after I entered the cafe, we would make eye contact (my first of the day). His dark brown eyes and my light brown would connect deeply for a nanosecond before I got my coffee. After pouring myself a cup of Colombian coffee, I would walk back to the counter and Sammy. He would hand me my whole-wheat toast lovingly wrapped in foil, and would smile. I would say, "Thank you," my first words of the day. Sammy and me - five days a week for two years. Until last month. On a Monday morning, I entered the cafe as usual. I searched behind the deli counter for Sammy's eyes. I walked around the cafe looking for him. I went back to the deli and ordered whole-wheat toast with peanut butter, and went to get my coffee. When I returned, I asked the man where Sammy was. "He doesn't work here anymore," he said. I asked where had he gone. He didn't know. Exhausted by all of this early-morning social interaction, I walked unsteadily to my office. My equilibrium had been shaken. Sammy - you could have left me a note.