Stacked sandwich with banner tattoo

Don't believe Mother when she says Arthur and I have turned into one of those couples who talk in shorthand. We have not. What happened on Tuesday was the cafe's fault. The Commercial Hotel sent up eleven luncheon orders at once, Arthur was slicing ham while I buttered the rye, and somewhere in the middle of it he reached for the mustard just as I reached for the cheese. We both looked up and said "Pickle?" in the same breath. Mr Dunmore, eating his egg and cress at the counter, set his cup down and laughed until he coughed.

The stack is my doing. Arthur likes his ham thick, I like the lettuce to stick out past the crust, and by now neither of us has to ask. He builds the bottom half, I fan the gherkins on top and skewer the whole thing with the cocktail stick Mrs Pell brought back from Brighton, the one with the green olive on the end. Mr Dunmore swears a sandwich only looks like a proper lunch once it has been dressed. Nobody in Hadleigh had ever dressed a sandwich before we came.

Then the paper band. Arthur printed WE FINISH EACH OTHER'S SANDWICHES on a spare delivery docket, and we wrapped every stack that left the shop with it. People started ordering the finishing one without knowing why it had a name. The council man asked me last month whether we were having a joke at the expense of the Co-op. I told him the Co-op was welcome to come and finish ours.

Last night I came down before light and found him asleep on the stool with a half-eaten roll in his hand. I took the bite he'd left, and he woke and took the rest of mine, and neither of us said a word about it. Ivy, I think that is all a marriage really is.