The Tragedy of the Ham and Gherkin Sandwich.

His stomach growls like a furious rabbit with a cotton ball tail as he opens the refrigerator door. The fridge is slightly bare, allowing the cold refrigerated air to filter through the empty gaps. His eyes scan for the important items and he pulls them off of the shelves. Obese fingers jovially grasp two slices of whole meal, whole grain, thick sliced bread. As he places them on the plate he presses his heavy fingers into one slice watching, as his fingers' imprints disappear. Unluckily, he pushes too hard and his middle finger tears the spongy square. He never meant to tear it and now the bread was slightly spoiled. The next step; butter; clotted, malleable lard lubricates the bread leaving its slippery white trail sinking into the pockmarked slices.

From the shiny, new packet he slides out two glassy cuts of ham and positions the right angles to match those of the bread. The consternation on his face not only denotes the exactness of the procedure but, he has noticed the vein of fat running through one of the slices. His nose curls at the sight of flecks of red in the glazed surface and so he quickly reaches for the jar of gherkins. Twisting off the jar lid a pungent fart, stagnant, stale and slightly sour from the sharp vinegar, escapes into the young boys face. He remarks to himself the wonder of such methods of storage, isn't it marvelous how the saline can preserve these pickles and prolong their disintegration so that we may enjoy them for much longer than is natural? He selects two shrunken, crumpled gherkins and slices each perfectly, ensuring to place them over the offensive parts of the ham. As he replaces the jar lid he notes that there is now only one gherkin remaining, he peers at it through its murky, watery pickled surroundings. It is quite a large one; its ends press against the glass and the boy amuses himself with the thought that perhaps it is peering at him too: willing him not to leave it alone amongst the salty and saturated solution.

The sandwich is finished; a fine ham and gherkin sandwich. The boy sits and devours the sandwich, truly contented with the salty, sour experience. The sandwich is gone remarkably quickly and the boy gazes at the few crumbs isolated in the vast empty plate. The plate seems to expand its white porcelain nothingness over the brown sea of woodenness of the table. As the boy's mouth begins to part in order for him to remark; "What's left? a small puff of air escapes, laced with vinegar: a remnant of the pleasure he once indulged.