Sardines

Olga went into the kitchen to make herself some lunch. She cut a thick slice of sourdough bread and tried to squeeze it into the toaster, but it wouldn't fit so she smushed it with the heel of her palm and then it did fit, just about. Next she poured herself a glass of water but it was too warm when she first sipped it so she poured it out and ran the cold tap again until it wasn't warm any more.

Then she opened the cupboard, realised she'd opened the wrong cupboard, opened the right cupboard and took out a tin of sardines, in sunflower oil. Although she'd have preferred tomato sauce. And she opened them, over the sink so she wouldn't spill the oil on the counter.

But there wasn't any oil. Because the tin didn't have any sardines in.
It was full of  sand. White sand, with tiny shells and bleached pieces of coral and tide-smoothed glass. It poured out of the tin as though from an hourglass, or a shoe worn on a walk along the sea-shore. And the watery sunlight shining in through the window made it glow, and the sight was so strange, so unexpected, so beautiful, that she could do nothing but stare as the sand slid slowly down onto dirty dishes.

She stared for so long that she could smell the toast burning.