The Sandwich

It didn’t take much fridge-perusing for Emily to discover what she was going to eat: sitting in a place of prominence, as though it were the king of foods, was a large home-made chicken sandwich. Perfectly presented, and still warm, it called to her as though it had sung a siren’s song.

She ate it promptly - no use letting such a treat sit on a plate when it could be sitting in her stomach instead, she reasoned. She had just taken the last bite when her husband had walked through the door.

“Hey, thanks for cooking dinner,” she said with a hug - and a cough. “Nothing like ending a long day at work with some comfort food.”

“What do you mean? I just got home. I haven’t had time to cook.”

She would have replied, if she had not suddenly found it incredibly difficult to breathe.