small monuments

"Can you put like a fuckton of mustard on there?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mustard. I want mustard."

I squeezed a bright strip of yellow across the edge of the sandwich.

"More than that."

I laid out another.

"More mustard."

I hefted the bottle and sprayed it across the bread several times.

"Keep going. Do I look like a woman? I said I want mustard."

The sandwich was almost entirely yellow now, the bread beginning to soak a little.

"That's good."

He lifted it up, a big glob spilling out the back as the bread felt the pressure of his fat fingers. He lifted it to his lips and took a bite, his teeth covered in yellow, a trail of slime streaked from his bottom lip to his chin.

I motioned to my own chin, trying to catch his eye. "You've got a little—"

"I don't clean the mustard till I'm done," he said. "I like to let it soak in." He grabbed the bottle from the counter and spread a little more on the edge of the sandwich he was about to eat.

I picked up a napkin and started to hand it to him. "But you should really—"

"Shut the fuck up," he said, taking another bite and then another, letting it drip off his chin onto the floor. "I fucking love me some mustard."

I looked down at it for a second, seeing the glob glistening there on the linoleum tile. "How is it?" I asked.

"It could use some ketchup."