I made two sandwiches. Of the same type: wheat bread, lettuce, tomato, red onion, mayonnaise, turkey. If you are a vegetarian or a vegan, I won't stand in your way. Replace the turkey, even the mayonnaise. It doesn't matter.
(Incidentally, for those of you expecting something else from this narrative, don't worry; it will arrive shortly.)
What does matter is I hadn't wanted two sandwiches. Distracted, I made a second one by accident. But now here they were, plated. Two lovely, alluring, and nourishing sandwiches. What a privilege. I felt profligate. I began to think of the situation as a ménage à trois.
How sad is that?
Well, I ate lunch alone--à un.
I finished one sandwich and gave up.
And that's when the two women wearing bikini bottoms only (I told you to be patient!) came into the apartment from poolside. It wasn't really my apartment. I was house-sitting, to some extent. All right: I was squatting.
One woman was brown and black hair, and her name was Arli. the other was white and had red hair, and her name was Cynthia. The former was as well endowed as Harvard, the latter as well as Princeton.
I told them, "I just made two sandwiches by mistake. I hate that."
Arli said, "And I hate that I just dropped War and Peace into the pool--and it's the Peaver-Volkhonsky translation, too." I saw that he book was not with her. Apparently it had drowned.
"There's no time to waste," said Cynthia. "Arli, let's split the sandwich." I poured them glasses of white wine that did not belong to me.
At some point, their remaining bikini parts fell, and eventually we had the kind of sex that's much appreciated, except all three of us were just a little burpy because of the sandwiches. Red onion, you know.
hans ostrom 2018
(Incidentally, for those of you expecting something else from this narrative, don't worry; it will arrive shortly.)
What does matter is I hadn't wanted two sandwiches. Distracted, I made a second one by accident. But now here they were, plated. Two lovely, alluring, and nourishing sandwiches. What a privilege. I felt profligate. I began to think of the situation as a ménage à trois.
How sad is that?
Well, I ate lunch alone--à un.
I finished one sandwich and gave up.
And that's when the two women wearing bikini bottoms only (I told you to be patient!) came into the apartment from poolside. It wasn't really my apartment. I was house-sitting, to some extent. All right: I was squatting.
One woman was brown and black hair, and her name was Arli. the other was white and had red hair, and her name was Cynthia. The former was as well endowed as Harvard, the latter as well as Princeton.
I told them, "I just made two sandwiches by mistake. I hate that."
Arli said, "And I hate that I just dropped War and Peace into the pool--and it's the Peaver-Volkhonsky translation, too." I saw that he book was not with her. Apparently it had drowned.
"There's no time to waste," said Cynthia. "Arli, let's split the sandwich." I poured them glasses of white wine that did not belong to me.
At some point, their remaining bikini parts fell, and eventually we had the kind of sex that's much appreciated, except all three of us were just a little burpy because of the sandwiches. Red onion, you know.
hans ostrom 2018
