What the hell can I write about bread?

I Don't Know, But I'm Sure It'll Only Mention Bread Rather Than Use It As The Actual Subject

I was talking to one of my friends recently over lunch. He's this guy I used to go to school with; we were often paired up for team assignments because our last names were right next to each other on the roster, so really I guess he's more like someone I got stuck with because I hadn't fully thought out a prank which involved changing my name on the roster to Seymour Butts. The teacher immediately noticed, but just never stopped calling me Butts. The guy I was having lunch with is named Mark Botts.

Anyway, we were having lunch. I don't really remember what we talking about, he kept saying he was hungry though. I do remember this really great bread the restaurant served us. It came with some butter and grape jelly.

The guy, I don't care to use his name, was acting really weird. It reminded me a lot of when we used to get paired up and I wouldn't do any work because I was always busy with other important shtuff, like appointments I'd made with other people or just looking out the window. I'd think about how pretty the sky was or wonder what color clothes the person I was seeing at the time would be wearing later. Things like that. They seemed important at the time, at least. Certainly important enough to let What's-His-Face, Matt, worry about the assignment alone.

Matt was talking about a deadline or something or other. Did I mention he's a writer now? I think that's what the deadline was about. He's working on a book of some sort. Or a song, I think... It could have been anything, honestly, I don't remember now. But he kept bringing up the fact that he was hungry. I really don't know why, we were having lunch at the time and all.

Now that I think back to it, I don't remember what we ate after the bread. It's really strange, especially since food is one thing I actually have a very good memory for. That bread, though; that was some great bread. It was cold, but it still tasted fantastic. The grape jelly just made it that much better.

I remember this funny smell. It kept hitting my face whenever the wind blew at me from the direction I was facing, right about where Muffy was sitting. I think it might have been something down the street. We were sitting just around the side of the restaurant at an outside table and further down there was probably a dumpster, so that might have been it. It smelled terrible. Not at all like the bread. The bread smelled wonderful, so to cover the bad smell I held a piece of the bread right in front of my nose.

Mort always had bad taste in clothes, by the way. I often told him as much too. He would usually wear these ugly baggy jeans and sweaters, almost as though his entire closet was nothing but crap he picked up off the street. Even that day he wore some hideous lime green jacket with a bunch of stains all over it. It was even torn in a few places.

I think my favorite bread is the bolio you can get from smaller bakeries. Right after they put it out and it's still all warm. That's the best.

If I remember right, Marv used to be an honor student. Back before we'd get paired up he would always get high grades, particularly in English classes. He was a pretty good writer, actually. I'm not sure why, but as soon as we started working together his grades dropped massively. He'd almost always forget to sign his name too. It's lucky I'd sign them for him when I handed in the work.

... Or did I? I'm not sure... I definitely wrote down my name, at least, so I'm sure I added his too.

Well, it's not that important. But I think that might have had something to do with why he'd always look so upset.

Anyway, a few of the papers we worked on together won some awards in essay contests, and when I later got work as a writer I thought it'd be a good idea to recommend Manny to the people who I worked for. We started writing together again, but he'd still always forget to sign anything he wrote.

He's a very talented writer, which is why I still don't get why only I was kept on as a writer. It's so funny, too, since it's at the point where people don't even care what I write anymore. As long as they know it's from me, I can pretty much just hand in thirty pages describing my lunch and they'll take it.

Martin doesn't seem too well off now though. After I left the lunch I heard a restaurant employee actually thought he was homeless and chased him off for eating table scraps. If he'd only take better care of his appearance, people wouldn't make embarrassing mistakes like that.

And he needs to remember to sign his name! He didn't even write it on the manuscript I got from him that day! He wanted me to give it to the editor for him. I'll just have to remember to sign it for him. Maybe he'll stop looking so darned upset now.

I think I'd like more bread from that restaurant though. With butter. I'm sure Mel would enjoy that too.