we can make sandwiches

My brain informed me last night that Owen would like me to make him sandwiches. One cheese sandwich. One rice sandwich. I told him having a rice sandwich was quite odd and stupid- “It will be all soggy. It won’t taste of anything anyway.” I was the one who ate frozen fish fingers I was told with a wry grin. So I made Owen one cheese, one rice. He stood next to me at the chopping board as I studiously avoided his gaze. So coy. So works every time.

Far too much Owen leaking out of my head recently. Very wrong. I must be in need of some male affection. Or more likely a kick in the head.

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