You sneak back up to your desk with the lunch contraband. It’s safer here; the chances of the person you’ve stolen the lunch from happening by are almost nil, especially if you consider the fact that almost all your office friends have long since moved on to less-terrible jobs.
You decide to start with the sandwich. Apples and Fig Newtons anyone could bring, but sandwiches are personal. The contents are by far the likeliest to give you away.
You take a bite and come away mostly with bread and mayo–no, wait, that’s Miracle Whip. As though shelf-stable mayonnaise isn’t foul enough, this person had to use the sweetened alternative.
You take another bite. There’s almost no texture, and barely any flavor. You pull apart the slices of white bread–Jesus, is it actually a Wonder Bread sandwich?–and see a lone slice of cheese.
American cheese. The orange kind.
What kind of monster made this lunch? Now that you check again, even the apple is Red Delicious. This person must hate him or herself far more than you do, which, frankly, is a feat in itself.
You’ve just managed to choke down the second bite of sandwich when you hear a voice a few cubes over.
“Does anyone know who took my lunch?”
You’re not sure there’s enough time to hide the evidence. Dammit, why couldn’t you have stolen the lunch of someone a floor up?
Or at least one that wasn’t so utterly miserable. Going down for this sack of sorrow is like Miracle Whip in the wound.
If you want to just own up to stealing the lunch, click here.
If you want to try to sneak the remains of the lunch back into the fridge, click here.