A sandwich so beautiful, I don’t even eat it.
A slice of sourdough toast, soft and yet so comforting. Not even the toasting sun of the Atlantic coast is able to burn it. Instead, tiny freckles on its surface arise.
A layer of romaine lettuce, crispy and refreshing. A pleasure for the eye and the soul. Not an excuse to have some vegetables with a seemingly (so people say) unhealthy meal, but a true and necessary edition to foreshadow the underlying depth.
Some cheese, for comfort. The form and consistency don’t even matter, the only important bit is the maturity. For maturity cannot be learned, it is only achieved. Some never succeed in reaching that level.
A bit of sauce. In this case, slight spicyness to reflect the character of its origin, a warm and cultured coastal town in northern Portugal. From here, explorers with good and bad intentions have ventured onto the sea. They brought back a new world of spice and sensation. The sauce smells gorgeous.
Another slice of bread, as all good things must have a beginning and an end.
As I look at the beauty I get nervous. A perfectly complex representation of what I long for.
I have another look and decide to let the moment pass. It will haunt me, but oh so sweetly.