A verandah laid with maplewood covered by muddy shoe prints leading in through the slider, staining the carpet of nervous sweat poured in a cascade over the fewer clothes worn in the summer sun, dirty hands, guilty hands approaching the sandwich basket, hesitant but resilient, unsure but determined, until a voice echoes in the back.
- “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
- “What do you mean? Nothing…”
- “Are you taking a… sandwich? You already ate. Sometimes I don’t understand how you’re so hungry all the time. And so messy. Why don’t you start leaving your shoes at the door instead of making me clean after your mess?”
- “But it was an emergency, mom…”
- “What kind of an emergency was it, pray tell, that made you rush in with those godforsaken shoes leaving prints and stealing sandwiches?”
- “I wasn’t stealing anything.... And I’ll clean this up myself, don’t worry. You were going for a nap, weren’t you? I’m gonna go catch some butterflies and clean this up after, bye mom..”
Quick feet stomping through the blooming fields, a wild mind strolling casually but a bound heart dedicated to a purpose, a destination in sight, a face that struck, that stuck, a face that was beautiful and innocent and loved sandwiches. A face accompanied by a smile that controlled his beating heart, a laugh that lingered in the air for lifetimes (or at least in his memory), and a wagging tail with tippy taps uprooting weeds, with a desperate drool that also loved sandwiches. It was funny how some bread stuffed with vegetables could unite people that well.
- “Do you like it? I made it for you, just for you.”
- “No, you didn’t. I know it cause your mom sent these to my mom too.”
- “Okay, maybe she made these ones but I usually make these. I’m really good at making sandwiches.”
- “The next time you make them, bring some for me. I’ll check just how good you are.”
- “Okay… Okay, sure. Haha, okay, I will.”
- “And anyways, even if they’re not good, Biscuit will still love to eat them, right biscuit?”
- woof woof!
- “Good boy, Biscuit. But don’t worry, I really am very good. At making sandwiches.”
- “You sound very unsure of yourself but I’ll take your word for it.”
Entirety of afternoons and evenings spent walking the fields, exploring river banks, eating sandwiches, donuts, salads, making stories up about Biscuit the dog turned into Biscuit The Food Enthusiast or Biscuit The Detective that only took on cases which involved food as a clue, a witness or a suspect. Fleeing chickens from the coups, stealing eggs, stealing food baskets, stealing hay bales and making forts, stealing clothes off neighbouring farms’ clotheslines, two young actors and a dog, a very small world and a lot of time.
- “They’ve been hanging out together a lot. They seem really close.”
- “Yeah, all day and all night, she talks about him.”
- “He doesn’t say much about her but I know all day he’s with her and, what’s its name, Cookie?”
- “Biscuit.”
- “Right, Biscuit, my bad. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to.”
- “They’re both so happy now, today. We blink and they’ll be gone, away from here, to big cities working long hours and all these’ll be is just memories.”
- “Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t experience these, though.”
- “No, it doesn’t.”
Working overtime today, he sits in his cubicle at 9 in the evening, the city roaring outside, his breath falling heavy on the pages, all tired, all alone, all hungry.
The gallery is empty now, she locks it up and heads home. She glances at her watch, 9:30, her cold breath making her a dragon in the night, all solitary, all weary, all starved.
- “Where are my sandwiches?”
- “What? Oh…”
- “Ah, you forgot. I see.”
- “Oh, no, I didn’t forget. I just… didn’t bring them today.”
- “Okay. Even Biscuit was asking about them. Weren’t you, Biscuit?”
- WOOF WOOF.
- “Oh, you’ll get your sandwiches, Biscuit, just you wait.”
Today, he wakes her up early. The dew is still fresh on the grass, the morning rooster’s screams can still be heard when his hand falls on her shoulder. Mom, wake up. Her eyes open, tired and swollen from the excessive reading last night. What? What happened? An embarrassing smile creeps up on his face, hiding itself, he squeaks lightly.
Can you teach me how to make a sandwich?
The clock reads quarter to 10, he’s making himself a sandwich, one of the two things that stuck with him over the years. Slow hands deliver precise cuts, the way he handles his bread shows more character than anything out of a John Green book; practice really does make perfect. And a nervous smile rushes to his face as he hears footsteps out the door, the jingling of keys, the twisting of the doorknob, the little “I’m home” sigh she gives this time everyday. The sandwiches are ready, the plates are set.
- “You won’t believe what happened today, so I was… mmm, You have got to teach me how to make these sandwiches… Right, so I was…”
Biscuit looks down on them and barks and wags his tail. He always loved them, and sandwiches.
