13/05/2026
My second attempt at flash fiction. Again, fictional, but drawn from real-life experience growing up with a Dutch father and grandfather.
OTHERWISE, IT DISAPPEARS
I peered over his shoulder just as the knife slid cleanly through the plump red fruit.
āOne each ā will that be enough?ā he turned to ask.
āYes, thanks Opa, that will be plenty,ā I replied, as I made my way over to the table, beckoning Claire to join me. I watched her eyes roaming, taking in the details. The clog jammed with utensils on the wall, the biscuit tins, the glass of fancy spoons, the beaded curtains. She stared at the table.
āUm ā¦ Is this a rug?ā she asked, eyes wide with curiosity. I looked at the thick burgundy table covering, boasting a yellow windmill in the centre.
āYeah,ā I said.
āHere you go, girls,ā Opa said cheerfully as he placed a towering stack of sandwiches on the table. One each. Ha. Not around here.
Our eyes met. She didnāt speak. I grabbed two slices of creamy, pink-stained white bread, peeling back the top layer to expose lashings of thick butter, perfectly sliced, luscious, red strawberries, and a generous coating of sugar. Heaven.
āIs this ā¦ like a dessert?ā Claire asked with confusion.
āNo, itās lunch.ā I took a generous bite. āOpa always has tons of strawberries in his fridge in summer.ā
āAre you serious?ā she whispered, pulling away from the offensive offering.
I looked at her, then looked down as a soggy bread corner hung limply, and two strawberries plopped onto my plate. She mustnāt like white bread. Or sandwiches. She likes strawberries, surely? My mind raced as I tried to reconcile her screwed-up face with the sensational flavours exploding in my mouth.
Oh.
I felt my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment. I glanced at the clog. Who hangs a clog on the wall, for goodnessā sake? The rug. On a table! Strawberries on bread. Oh God. I hope she doesnāt see the birthday calendar in the toilet.
āIām sorry,ā I said under my breath. I began mentally mapping the fastest possible exit.
At that moment, a chair scraped as Opa sat down.
āNot hungry?ā he asked, peering between the two of us and the pile of sandwiches.
āWell, yes, but Claireās never had strawberry sandwiches before,ā I said quickly.
āOh?ā he asked. āWhy not?ā
Claire smiled weakly. āUm, I guess Iāve just never thought to put strawberries on bread.ā
āYou wonāt know if you donāt try,ā Opa said, as he beckoned her to take one.
Claire reached for a sandwich and took a tiny bite. She chewed slowly. I held my breath. I shouldnāt have brought her here. What would she tell the others at school?
She looked down at the sandwich in her hand. Then back at the plate.
āHm,ā she said quietly, before taking another bite.
Opa reached for the sugar bowl and sprinkled more over his own sandwich with complete concentration, as if it were the most ordinary lunch in the world.
Claire finished the first sandwich, wiping sugar from her fingers onto her shorts. After a moment, she cleared her throat.
āSo ā¦ do you put the sugar on before or after the strawberries?ā
Opa looked up, surprised by the question.
āAfter, natuurlijk,ā he replied. āOtherwise, it disappears.ā
By the time we left that afternoon, the sugar bowl was empty.
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