A good one.
Granted. You’ll have a nice sandwich, but not now. You’ll never know when the good sandwich will come. Is it the next one? In a year? And when you get a good sandwich, will it be your last one. Enjoy the anxiety.
alternate ending: You don’t know if you’ve already had it. Maybe that decent sandwich was the good one, and no other sandwich will be as good. Until you get that better one, after which maybe THAT was the good one
Granted. A little girl with cancer hobbles up to you and asks what you wished for. She doesn’t have long and she’s starting to lose hope.
She’s holding a bag with a sandwich her granny made for her. Her condition worsens suddenly and she passes away in your arms. Now it’s your sandwich.
Granted.
You get a sandwich that tastes good. So good infact that it leave everything else tasting bland and unappetizing for the rest of your life.
You spend the rest of your life looking for that same flavor and texture, roaming the streets of cities abroad, trying every single spice and crudité.
You bargain with yourself that if you get close enough it will satiate you, but everything taste like ashes.
Was it just a dream? But now nightmares chase you every time you close your eyes.
In your twilight years, after a mad night combining perry sause with mayonnaise, desperate, you burn your tongue with acetone.
Yet the aftertaste never leaves your mind, the sensual spicy smell, the perfect crunchy texture, cheese melting in your tongue in a lovely embrace…
A single tear races your sunken cheek as you exhale your last breath while holding the last bread on earth to try.
It was never close enough.
You don’t get the sandwich. Someone else does.
Granted. A floating hotdog appears in front of you.
Granted. You’re the meat in between the Raúl & Thomas Sandwich. May be good, if your into it.
