Clarity

Chicken salad with dill, almonds and cranberries on sliced country white. Red onion and a whole pickle. Jalapeno potato chips. Ginger ale. The cashier bagged it all up, stuffed it with smallish napkins whose size he more than made up for with volume.

Ron thought about the slivered almonds and considered how nuts, fruit and poultry could work together, through mayo, to present a balanced summer meal - perfect for the office. There was a good chance that it was all a mistake with a story. A chef in some hotel dropped his dried fruit and nut mix into a bowl of leftover chicken scraps. Too tired from a full day in the kitchen to pick through it, he decided instead to bring it together and make something of it. Mayo.

Chicken salad wouldn't stink up the cubes beside him like tuna could. It wasn't ethnic - not like the halal lamb or chinese tofu - which he might've got had he turned left when stepping out for lunch, instead of right. The sandwich was thick with contents, teaming within its wax paper wrapping. Some of it might fall to the side, off the bread's bounds. With onions in the picture, it was best not to use his fingers to pick it up. Not when eating at his desk. He wouldn't touch his keyboard while eating with his hands. He decided these among other things. Anything, really, to keep his mind off home.