His favourite sandwich was ham and mustard, with a little lettuce. It bore the marks of her teeth, from the day she’d dropped in with that burly man and studied the menu for a full ninety seconds before choosing number seventeen.
He’d spent so long making it, doing it properly, perfectly, slipping in that bit of iceberg to give it a certain je ne sais quoi, that she’d only had time to take a bite before her car swept to the kerb. She’d been ever so nice about it, though, just like everyone said. And she’d left him her napkin.
V for vignette 