September 12 - November 1
First, there is nothing to ask about— it’s just bread and jelly, as you already knew. It can be made well or made poorly with not enough jelly or with too much. It’s only as big as the bread, the jelly sandwich. It doesn’t continue onto the counter or table, it’s not part of your mouth or hand. It takes no time to make, about as long as tying a shoe or saying oh, yes, one moment into the phone.
Because it’s suspicious—accepted as food, barely—it’s best eaten alone. Others will wonder why you didn’t add peanut butter and will doubt your condition. They will think you are lonely or sad or unloved or don’t care about your own wellbeing. The sandwich will tell them there is something they shouldn’t ask about. They may make a joke like what is this, a coalmine?
For your part, you may eat the middle and leave the crust or lick off the jelly and leave the bread—leaving the good part is intolerable. To leave the crust, as is customary, is to say ‘a sandwich was here’. Though, to be clear, do not pack up the crusts for lunch the next day or you will lose all your friends.
(text by Megan Greene)