Sandwiches

This was written as an assignment in a creative writing course I took in university, which focused on the use of perspective and time. In this case I had to write a scene in second person and hypothetical future tense; I later expanded that scene into the following story as part of my final portfolio for the course. Don't let the title or first paragraph fool you: this story has fairies.

You’re a healthy human being, which means that you get hungry on more or less a regular basis, just like everyone else. Every day, sometime around noon or so, you get up from the work at your desk and head to the kitchen to make lunch. And you’re a creature of habit, so it’s usually variations on a theme – a sandwich, almost always, with whichever deli meat struck your fancy last time you went to the grocery store, and lettuce or tomato (or maybe both) depending on what’s fresh. Sometimes you mix it up and opt for cucumber. On rare occasions, even fish, instead of meat. And there’s usually cheese of some kind.

It’s with the condiments – which you also try to vary – that you amuse yourself, most days. One half of your sandwich receives a Caesar dressing smiley face, the other half a swirling mustard sunshine. Other days your whims are more nonsensical. And if, one day, by some slim chance, the shapes you doodle with the squeeze-bottle mayonnaise on that nicely-toasted rye just so happen to fall into the form of the runes to summon Robin Goodfellow, you will very likely be taken by surprise.

He will introduce himself gleefully and somersault around your kitchen a few times as you consider the situation, your hands running on muscle memory and turning one slice of bread over to press onto the top of your sandwich. Eventually he will bother to ask why you brought him there, and at a loss for anything else to say, you will offer: "Would you like a sandwich?" Sandwiches are more central to your life than you may care to admit, as it turns out.

He is likely to accept, surprised and amused by the suggestion. You'll pull some more bread from the bag, ask what he likes. You won't question the request for both tuna and raspberry jam. Puck himself, you might imagine, has the right to unique taste. The fried egg takes a few extra minutes, but you won’t be in any rush. Once all of his requested toppings are safe between two slices of golden-brown rye, you’ll put it on a plate with a handful of potato chips and hand it to him. “On the house,” you’ll tell him, since that’s really all you can come up with.

He’ll grin broadly, a smile you like, but certainly don’t trust. “Perhaps sometime you’d let me return the favour,” he’ll propose, innocently.

“I know better than that,” you’ll inform him, raising your eyebrows. You’re not exactly versed in folklore, per se, but you’ve read a thing or two about fairies over the years. “I’ll share my food, but I don’t think I’ll be having any of yours, thank you.”

He will laugh, balancing the plate on his head as he chomps into the sandwich, hovering next to your faucet. You may wonder idly if a fae visitor would judge you for the number of unwashed dishes sitting in your sink. “Thanks for the lunch,” he’ll say with a wink, and then he’ll disappear.

If all of this happens, you will most likely begin to doubt yourself by mid-afternoon. By the next morning, you’ll have convinced yourself it was a strange daydream you cooked up after being alone in the house for too long. Ignoring those dishes in the sink (and the tuna- and jam-covered knives atop the pile), you’ll decide to go outside, supposing that some fresh air might do you some good.

You will find your neglected garden flourishing with wildflowers, and your mailbox full of iridescent green beetles, and a family of stunningly friendly young rabbits under your porch.

“Okay,” you’ll say eventually, standing on the lawn and crossing your arms. “Well. I guess if the fair folk like sandwiches, who am I to refuse? I never finish the bread before it goes moldy anyway.” You’ll lean down, lift the leaves of a bush next to the foundation, frown thoughtfully at the squirrel that looks up from its peanut to sniff your fingers. “Come back anytime, I suppose,” you’ll continue, not to the squirrel, but to anyone more magical who might be listening in.

Goodfellow will take you up on that offer, to your mild surprise. Even more surprising, he won’t be alone. You hesitate to guess at the names of such beings – you’re not certain they even all have names, strictly speaking – but if you think to ask, they will offer nicknames they’re willingly known by. Animal names, often, or plants. One of them, who will come back often, laughingly insists upon being referred to as Blue Spruce, and because of her you will look at the blue spruce towering next to your house with fresh eyes. She will like her sandwiches sweet, made with honey and blueberries, and rather than potato chips she will ask for sliced melon on the side.

Your vegetable garden, once an abandoned plot of weeds, will have been flourishing since you began serving lunch to fairies, so you won’t mind giving her the fruit. You will have produce to spare. In particular, you will find yourself with an unprecedented abundance of zucchinis. You are not in the habit of speaking with your neighbours, as you tend to be rather self-contained and even shy, but if you offer, they will be glad to take some extra vegetables off your hands. However, the gifts will be unlikely to stop them from watching with puzzlement as foxes and deer stroll, unafraid, out of the woods and onto your lawn.

Goodfellow will once again offer, every so often, to repay your kindness in turn. “Your fruits and vegetables are very fine,” he will compliment diplomatically, “and your breads quite nice, but they are nothing compared to what we serve at our fine banquets.” The way he talks about it will be disproportionately enticing, but if you’re wise, you will decline.

“I am quite content with my circumstances,” you will inform him, as long as you manage to resist his temptations. “Your impact on my garden is much appreciated. By the way, was that a beehive I noticed out back yesterday?”

He will laugh at your obvious change of topic, but he will still enjoy your sandwiches, and as such he will never push you too hard.

If you keep all of this up, your clientele – so to speak – will expand with time. Soon a day won’t go by without a few fair visitors, hungry and mischievous, and the flowers along the front of the house will be the most vibrant and fragrant they’ve ever been. The cat you thought ran off and died over a year ago will return to you, a whole posse of healthy kittens in tow. You will find that you are in fact the happiest you’ve ever been, holding your daily sandwich sessions with the strange and delightful fairies who materialise in your kitchen. This is how you will open the closest thing there ever was to a fae diner, if you do everything just right.

Over the years you will know them each by name – or something like a name – and though they like to surprise you with new orders, you will have a sense of their individual tastes. You will be able to guess what sort of sandwich you might be asked to make on any given day. The fairies will delight in how well you know them. Eventually you will even venture to call them your friends, if they call you theirs first.

One day, far from today, you will be tired and slow, and your hands will shake, but you will still make your sandwiches. Only Goodfellow will appear to you on that day, which will be unusual, but you might already have a sense of why. The two of you will eat together in silence. Afterwards, he will ask once again, “May I repay the favour?”

If you look into his eyes, then, you will know what waits for you in your sleep tonight, and you will accept his offer.