A man in three-piece suit enters, puts his briefcase on the floor, sits down on the empty chair, opens his newspaper and takes the sandwich.

A scene that has been repeated for years. She's tired. So tired. The must be more to life. He comes home from work again. She looks at him and can't remember when was the last time she had really looked at him, let alone that he would have looked at her.

He reads his paper and eats his sandwich.

The next day she decides to move his plate. After all that anticipation he comes back from work, sits down opens his paper and goes to take his sandwich. It's not there, but he doesn't even look up. She waits. So does he. She gives in and pushes the plate towards him. He takes the sandwich.

He comes from work. She is sitting on the table with the plate on her lap. He looks for his sandwich, but finds something soft, round.... But it's not the sandwich. He's worked hard, carried the money home and all he wants is his peace and his sandwich. She puts the plate on the table. He takes the sandwich.

Although a bit scared she will have attention. At least once a year she will have his attention. She sits on her chair with the plate and the sandwich on her lap. He comes in, puts his briefcase on the floor, sits down, opens his paper, goes to take his sandwich from where it should be, looks for it on the table, returns to where it should be and is finally forced to take his eyes off the days paper. He doesn't ask for much and even that little is denied of him. He rolls his paper, stands up, hits her in the face with his paper and sits down. She covers her face from the blow, looks at him waiting for his sandwich and gives it to him.

She gives up. If he doesn't give her what she wants, she will look for it elsewhere. She makes his sandwich, but every time he sits down she leaves.

She walks past a young man. He looks at her.

She gradually drifts further away from her husband. He doesn't notice, bhe notices the young man looking at her. How could he be looking at her? Surely he was looking at someone else?

She edges further away from her husband day by day. She sees the young man again. He is definitely looking at her. Their eyes lock, they walk past each other, turn towards each other, but she gets afraid and hurries home.

She stands behind her chair looking at her husband with the memories of that young man pulling her, confusing her, making her happy, making her pity herself and despise her husband. She sees the young man, they walk past each other, turn and stop... She can hardly breathe. He goes to touch her, but she recoils like he would have hit her. She immediately regrets her reaction and runs away. It's the young man's turn to be confused.

She watches her husband sit down and pick up his sandwich. She wants to find that beautiful young man if for nothing else at least to apologise for her abrupt reaction. He is about to walk past her, but she stops him and turns him around, tries to explain that she really liked his touch, but it was all so sudden and that... He pulls his hand away and goes. She stands watching him go still feeling his hand in her hands.

His touch felt so good. It felt better than all the good moments of the last fifteen years would have felt have they all happened at the very same moment. What is the point of this marriage? She looks at her husband reading his paper and lfeeling his empty plate with his hand looking for his sandwich in vain.

She looks at the young man looking at her. they walk towards each other, stop and look at each other. They both go to touch each other and stop startled looking at each other's hand in the midair. She touches his cheek. He touches her cheek. The touch trails down the neck, shoulder arm, hand and drips off the fingers. He goes to touch her cheek again, she recoils, but holds on to his hand and puts her face against it, looks at him and touches his face with both of her hands. She watches her hands run down his chest, takes his arms and puts them around her. It feels so good, but still... Wrong... He pulls her back. She gives in. They dance.

The husband has had enough. How many times does he need to hit her? She's not there. He sits down and puts his paper down. She's not there and the sandwich is not there. After all these years of providing and caring for her she's gone! Bitch... Whore!

He takes the knife, makes himself a sandwich with the images of her dirty, lustful betrayal flashing through his mind. He looks a the finished sandwich with the knife in his hand. He's made up his mind.

© Jarkko Lehmus (2008)