You went to the store after putting $3.58 cents per gallon gas in your car.
You grabbed one of those handbaskets.
You filled it with turkey meat, sliced cheese, two cans of tuna fish, mayo, a Vidalia onion, whole grain bread and two liters of ginger ale.
The next morning you made your lunch with love. You even put a sweet pickle in a ziploc baggie to complement your turkey plan.
You drove the sandwich to work, a tall building with tinted windows, a place you’ve grown to loathe but are aggravatingly tethered to.
You put your brown bag lunch (including several oatmeal cookies and random chips you were able to shake out of the bottom of the potato chip bag) in the shared fridge.
You dwell in your cubicle making keyboard noises until around 12:38 p.m. Your stomach growls.
Your turkey sandwich is calling.
You go to the fridge, move random lunches aside (Weird Tom who always has something he insists is tuna, someone’s stroganoff, yet another’s rancid “casserole” thingy) and finally locate your carefully wrapped sandwich tucked safely inside of the brown paper bag.
You return to your desk and open the bag. You’re distracted by a pop-up message on your computer screen. You reach inside the brown bag to fondle your sandwich. There it is. You pull it out and begin to unwrap it while reading the pop-up message (something about the Dilson report again). Something is wrong.
In the corner of your eyes you notice something. You look down at your sandwich.
There’s a bite taken out of it.
You’re beyond livid.
Suddenly everyone around you is suspect, including Rita who claims she’s a vegetarian and hasn’t eaten meat “since 1988.”
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