She sits on the bench in the park every weekday at lunch time, the same bench, the same park, beside the lake.
The wooden bench is cold beneath her.
She curses, stands, pulls her coat down lower over her rear end and sits again, the padding protecting her a little more.
She unwraps her ham-and-cheese baguette and spreads the tinfoil open over her lap.
A squished tomato oozes beneath the bread, causing it to become soggy.
This tips her over the edge.
‘F******g shitty mother*****g tomato.’
She could tolerate her intolerable work colleagues at work.
She could tolerate the disgusting man on the bus beside her this morning who picked his nose for the entire trip and rolled his snots on the balls of his fingers as if she couldn’t see him.
But the tomato.
The fucking tomato is the icing on the cake.
She’d only wanted cheese and ham and this unwanted addition has turned her bread to mush, leaving the cheese squished and stuck to the bread as though it’s all one gooey substance.
‘B*****d tomato,’ she grumbles, throwing the entire baguette on the ground.
The ducks can have it.
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