MIND MY LOAF

Went down out top to get the loaf I’d left in the car but it wasn’t there.
Just after I stood thinking, ‘bollocks, coming all this way and it isn’t here,’ I remembered taking it out the back earlier, wrapping the plastic bag it was in underneath, putting it on the roof of the car while I fiddled with earphones, watched the three people walk on the road toward me reach the pub, go in, envy them having a drink with friends, before I must’ve not took the bread with me.
First I was pissed off it’d gone, looking forward to a peanut butter sandwich, thought, ‘nothing lasts long here if it’s not tied down,’ then hoped whoever’d taken it needed it, enjoyed it, or whatever.
I’d bought her a loaf when I bought mine, phoning from the shop and asking, ‘is there anything you want while I’m here?’
‘Some nice bread if there is some,’ she said.
Later when we got back to her place from the garden centre she made me a tuna salad sandwich.