Jam

By Phil Mullins

“Morning,” she said.

He’d been making sandwiches. Now, he stood motionless frowning at the spoon in his hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Jelly,” he said.

“Jelly?” she repeated.

“Trying to spread jelly on bread is ridiculous. Why not just buy jam?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Jam doesn’t destroy bread,” he continued, testily. “Besides, the kids can’t tell, once it’s on the sandwich.”

“True,” she said.

“It’s all the same, you know. All grape-flavored sugar injected into jars by machines.”

“You’re right,” she said.

She patted his arm and resisted the familiar urge to tell him the kids had been grown-up for years.