Sunday Sandwich by Nicholas L

Every Sunday Grandpa makes Cristiano a sandwich for lunch, and last week’s was terrible. Between two slices of bread was stinky, old Brussel sprouts, smelly, oily sardines dripping down one side and barbeque sauce like mud that was well over its expiry date. “Thanks Grandpa,” he said in a sarcastic tone. Cristiano picked up the squishy, wet sandwich and with one big gulp, he swallows it with a half-hearted smile.

A week before that grandpa made the best sandwich ever! Between two soft, warm pieces of bread was a mountain of spicy, thin salami with thick, tangy, succulent barbeque sauce and freshly picked spinach from grandpa’s sweet smelling garden. Cristiano picked up his sandwich and indulged it into his mouth. He didn’t finish until all the barbeque sauce was out of sight.

The next week Grandpa placed Cristiano’s Sunday sandwich before him. It was a pale, ordinary peanut butter sandwich. “Sorry about the sandwich. I have been too busy building a 1969 corvette stingray.”

Cristiano’s jaw drops to the ground. “Can is see it please?” asks Cristiano to his Grandpa. “Come on,” replies grandpa. Cristiano ran downstairs to see his face in the reflection of the polished black exterior of the beautiful car. Through the transparent glass were red velvet seats as comfy as can be. The chrome hubcaps so shiny that he could blind himself. What a day.