One day my wife says to me, you must be hungry, you haven’t had any supper.
No no, I’m fine, thanks, I tell her. I’ll have a little something later.
You really should eat something now, shouldn’t you? she says.
I’m fine, I insist. It’s good to fast once in awhile, gotta keep that girlish figure.
I’ll tell you what, she says. If I make you a sandwich, will you eat it?
You don’t have to make me sandwich, I tell her.
I want to make you a sandwich, she says. What kind of sandwich do you want?
I don’t really want any kind of sandwich, I tell her.
Okay but if you did want a sandwich, what kind of sandwich would you want?
I tell her that if I did want a sandwich, which I don’t, but if I did, I would want a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich. My favourite.
I’m going to make you a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich, she says. I’m going to make it right now.
That’s very kind, I tell her. Thank you.
I go walk the dog. I’m not really very hungry, I think, walking the dog. The last thing I want is a sandwich. But if she makes it I’ll eat it. She’s just looking out for me, I know.
I get back and towel the dog off (it was a cold, wet night). I let him off his leash, take my boots off, enter the kitchen. My wife’s on the phone. I can tell it’s going to be a long call. The peanut butter jar sits on the counter, alongside the jam, a couple of slices of bread and a banana. My wife’s making apologetic motions to me. Motions that say, there’s all the stuff, all you have to do now is make the sandwich.
I don’t want to make the sandwich. I don’t want the sandwich. All I want to do is sit down and watch tv.
I make the sandwich anyway. I eat it. It’s very good. It is, after all, my favourite sandwich in the world.
My wife gets off the phone. Sorry about that, she says. I really was going to make you the sandwich, and then my sister called.
I know, I tell her. I appreciate that.
And I do.