by David Benn
I glance up at the clock. Nine o’clock Sunday night and the boys are in their pyjamas, sitting at the kitchen table playing with their phones.
There are four slices of bread in front of me. Feather-soft white bread from a plastic bag that stays fresh for over a week. Can’t stand making school lunches. I make the same school lunches. Night after night. Week after week. Year after goddamn year.
I spread dairy soft over the bread and peel two perfectly round slices of perfectly pink ham from a stack in a pink Tupperware container and place them on the bread. I close the sandwiches and wrap them both in clear plastic cling wrap. Two cling wrapped white bread sandwiches sit on the bench.