Perfection

Write a story or poem about making the perfect sandwich. From the bread's point of view.

Perfection

I’ve always known I was perfect. In fact, my very first awareness was of my perfect shape, perfectly aligned with all of my brothers. But it’s not just my shape; I’m a perfect creamy white – not overly spongy with too many holes. There are no seeds or nuts or holes or marks to mar my perfect texture. I am the perfection that comes at the end of alteration. But it’s not just me; it’s all of us. For we are many and we are one, together. There’s a reason they call us “Wonder.”

If I were given to philosophical thought, I might wonder why such perfection is wasted on such a finite existence. Why were we not given a place of honor; a pedestal to stand upon perhaps and be admired? But that is just something I heard a slice two or three slices away from me mumble. I spent my time really, from the factory to the grocery store to the pantry, just holding up my end of our plastic cover. I make sure I cause no dents or imperfections.

Understandably, I found myself facing increasing anxiety when our cover was opened and slices were removed. I felt increased pressure to maintain our perfect presentation even as our overall mass grew smaller and smaller. Oh how I strained to hold that excess plastic material tight and wrinkle free. As I grew closer to the front, to that time when I would serve, I was excited – excited and anxious. And then I was on the outside at last.

Together with one of my fellow slices, I found myself sitting on a porous square of paper. It had two sides of uneven perforated edges. The texture was not distasteful, but we both felt we were much better suited to a porcelain plate; perhaps a blue one or maybe even black. Then came the knife and butter. They caused no initial pain, but they dug deep dents into my surface. I tried to expand and push out the dents, but the butter clogged my pores and made the air around me feel stuffy and close. The butter was followed by mayonnaise and mustard. I found myself fighting an anxiety attack. Who knew that our ultimate purpose would be so . . . . . messy? So degrading. Why would anybody create something of our great perfection only to have it be covered up and mutilated at it’s prime moment of fulfillment? I couldn’t understand it and as we were slapped together – held apart only by a bit of grease, spice and a piece of ham – I knew my companion slice felt the same. But even as I wallowed in my disappointment, I had no time to think much but “This is it!”

“Billy! I told you to use the wheat bread. You’ve had too much of the Wonder Bread lately. You need a little bit of variety.”

“But Mom!”

“But nothing. Wheat bread, young man.”

We were pulled apart, separate once more. As I was pushed against the rubber flap in the kitchen garbage can, I caught a glimpse of the wheat bread that was to replace us. Asymmetrical, misshapen, with multi specks mottling it’s surface as well as an irregular hole pattern; yet that was what was chosen while we were rejected. And suddenly I knew. Too late I realized the conundrum of my existence.

There is no place in this world for perfection.