Knuckle Sandwich

An unusual piece of five-minute fiction

Anything can be a weapon, this I learned the hard way. If only I'd had the breath and the composure, I would have laughed when he used it against me. But behind the absurd threat of a brandished Subway sandwich, was a deadly serious hand, which closed as it approached, so the sandwich was half smeared, half punched into my face.

 

I could taste it all right - honey oat bread, chicken, generous olives, tomatoes and pickles - in fact everything was on it, including gouts of blood. And in the instant he withdrew his fist, with mayonnaise-covered tassles of lettuce still clinging to his knuckles, I pictured a squeezy bottle of blood on the counter. Then I pictured a metal trough, overflowing with teeth, through the deli counter glass.

 

'Southwest sauce' I shout back at him. 'I always have southwest sauce.' Then at last we do fall about giggling. But clearly it's not a sandwich I'll be ordering again.