The Last Sandwich from the Shop at the Intersection Between Carlsson's and Third
Avery handed over the pocket-change, in sum coming up to the exact price of the tuna and mustard sandwich. The small corner shop at the intersection between Carlsson's and Third Street was a regular stop from his way back from work. It reduced the prices of sandwiches past eight by half, and it closed at nine. If Avery got off work at Five past seven and got the bus in front of the corporate office building at seven sharp, they would pass by this corner shop at quarter to nine. That day, there had been exactly one sandwich left in the small glass fridge. Tuna and mustard wasn't Avery's first choice, but after writing reports for somewhere between eight and nine hours, they didn't much care about the particulars. Avery's long standing habit of finishing the day with a sandwich from the shop at the intersection between Carlsson's and Third was a residual from the days when they had worked there during their university days. Money was never not tight, and time was never more available than money, which had created a habit of concluding the day with a sandwich eaten at the kitchen sink. In that way, their life and the small corner shop at the intersection between Carlsson's and Third were eternally intertwined. Or at least, that's what they thought. As the automatic sliding doors closed behind them, accompanied by a low "beep", Avery considered waiting the last few minutes to watch the shop close its doors for the final time. As they had never done that before, it would have been an empty experience. Melancholic for the sake of it. It didn't seem like something they would enjoy. Instead Avery walked straight home without a second look back at the lit plastic sign advertising sodas, sandwiches and crisps.
The sandwich made it home safely, balanced on top of the more or less uniformly sized objects Avery carried to and from work daily. At home, they unpacked items one by one, starting with the sandwich, followed by the work tablet and the two stacks of contracts. One stack signed, one stack unsigned, rejected. The sandwich went on the counter, the tablet on the small kitchen table and both stacks of contracts in the rubbish.
The tuna and mustard sandwich tasted suspiciously normal. Part of Avery would have expected an emotional reaction to it, but the daily ritual of unwrapping the shrink-wrap, crumpling it into a ball and placing it next to the small ceramic plate felt suspiciously ordinary. It was fine though, overall. A brief two minute affair that they suspected they would forget within the week. The taste too was fleeting, gone by the time they finished the accompanying can of soda.
The following evening, Avery stood in front of the sliding glass door, hesitating to step forward and into the new corner shop at the intersection between Carlsson's and Third. They certainly hadn't thought about what they would do for dinner. The slight lean in their movement coaxed open the sliding doors. The sign of the shop had changed. It now advertised sodas, crisps and sandwiches in new, blocky letters sticking out starkly against the bright white lamp constituting the sign. The inside of the shop had also changed. The person behind the till was new, probably still in school and trying to top off their allowance. It was quarter to nine, maybe a little later. The sandwiches were full price. Maybe in ten years time, that person behind the till would visit this shop with the same regularity Avery had visited the one they had parted with on the previous evening. They walked through the aisles one by one, almost deliberately. Several minutes later, they left the shop, empty handed.