I'm his sandwich

Coffee and pastries in bed with you

I lie back in the bath, blowing gently on a mound of glistening pink bubbles, and sigh. Living back with my parents is going as well as expected for a woman in her thirties. My mother has been nagging me endlessly to get a job, get a haircut, get a boyfriend. Meanwhile, my meek father has been sneaking chocolate with me from the fridge in the dead of night and shooting me apologetic smiles at tense dinners.

'So done with life,' I say to no one in particular. 'Is this really all there is?'

A cheesy romcom plays out on my laptop, which is balanced precariously on the edge of the sink. It's your typical sugary fare: boy meets girl, girl hates boy, girl falls madly for boy, tedious conflict that could be solved with better communication, over the top tearful reunion with a stunning setting. I mime vomiting as the credits roll and sink deeper into the steamy water.

I should kill myself. But I can never follow through with anything. I get squeamish at the sight of blood, and the thought of grasping at my neck as I swing from a rope sounds frankly awful. No, suicide is yet another thing to add to my endless list of failures.

I open a dating app and swipe half-heartedly through a collection of beaming, perfectly acceptable men. I pull the plug and wrap myself in a towel, heading towards my bedroom. I open a new tab on my laptop and look up 'Ed Miliband sandwich.' Locking my door, I drop the towel and slide my hand between my legs. I've never wanted to be a sandwich so badly. I touch my soft warmth, deep moans rumbling in my core.

'Ed,' I sigh as rainbows cascade behind my eyes. Closing my laptop, I burrow under my duvet, my every nerve ending crackling and spitting like an exposed livewire. I sift through the filing cabinet of my mind until I find my favourite fantasy, and soon I'm drifting into blissful delusion...

I'm walking down a grand staircase, my glittery high heels sinking into plush carpet, my trembling hand gripping the shining banister. My heart hammers in my chest. I'm wearing a long, flowing scarlet dress, and my hair is piled high atop my head. My mouth is dry, knees knocking together, and I'm about to turn and flee when I see him: Ed Miliband, former Labour leader and sandwich enjoyer. He's standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in an elegant tuxedo, and he's holding a beautiful bouquet of red roses. Our eyes meet and he breaks into a slightly awkward smile. His honey-warm brown eyes scan my body briefly and his smile stretches even wider so it seems his face might very well be in danger of cracking in two like a delicate china plate.

'You look absolutely beautiful, Eleanor,' he says, his breath hitching in his throat. He holds out a hand and I see it's trembling, just like mine. I take it and he draws me into an embrace. He smells like a forest in summer after a fall of gentle rain, and of something else imperceptible.

'I love you,' he whispers, his breath hot and sweet against my ear. I bury my face in his shoulder.

'I love you, too,' I say.

I suddenly realise that my pillow is soaking. I touch my face to find that it's streaked with tears. Suddenly, there's a knock at the door.

'Eleanor, you left your dirty plate in the sink,' shouts my mother. 'Your father and I are going out to that play I was telling you about. You'd better have it cleaned before we get back.'

'Yeah,' I call back, my voice thick with tears. I listen to her footsteps retreating, then turn and drift into a dream full of sandwiches and Ed's soft hand gripping mine.

When I wake, it's dark outside. I fumble for the lamp and switch it on, the yellow light illuminating the room.

'Ed,' I whisper. In my dreams we'd danced under glittering stars, swirling with interlaced fingers, nearly choking with laughter. Tears sting my eyes when I realise I'm in bed, alone, with no future before me. The blank canvas of my life is starting to gather dust.