The prompt for today is the word relish.
Subways terrify me. No, no. Not the darkened, cobwebbed passages running beneath busy roads. No, not those kind of subways either!
Subways as in…the plural of Subway. Y’know, the sandwich store? Yeah, I know. Weird, right?
But true. The process of obtaining a sandwich from Subway is complicated to say the least. Don’t even try to deny it. You walk in and bam! It’s like an interrogation. Should you opt for a six incher or a foot long? (Jazz, no! Get your mind out that gutter!) What type of bread should you have? 9-grain wheat? Italian herbs and cheese? Okay, so far so good…but what about the filling, hm? Meatball marinara? The veggie patty? Tuna? Just pick a filling dammit! You begin to sweat, the glares of those in the line behind you burning holes into your back. Choose. Choooose. Choooooooooose. Their pleas becoming a collective, unbearable hiss and in a panic, you blurt out “TunanoImeanchipotlechickenmelt”. Phew. You release a shuddering breath and move on. Ah this part’s a tad easier. You smile at the sandwich artist and politely ask for a dash of sweetcorn and a sprinkling of olives. But then…
Relish. RELISH. RELish. relISH. Relish. You keep your mouth closed, afraid to repeat the word lest you vomit. You grip the glass fronted counter, your legs jellifying beneath you. Your eyes flicker from bottle to bottle and you shake your head, trying to make sense of the myriad of obscure relish names before you. Southwest sauce? What does that even consist of? Maybe a squirt of the ol’ ranch sauce? C’mon. C’moooooooon.
“Mayo,” you squeak, a single tear trickling down your cheek. The sandwich artist frowns but duly complies with your request. Boring perhaps but a safe bet.
You pay, the transaction passing in a blur, and collapse in a seat.
“Never again,” you mutter under your breath, “Never again.”