The corner store was still open. He walked the three blocks in a fine drizzle, rehearsing the geometry of the meal in his head. But the store’s cooler was a graveyard of culinary compromise. No all-beef. Only “poultry links” and something called “wheat-based protein tubes.”
But this Tuesday, the quandary arrived.
And yet, he finished the plate. Not because it was good, but because he realized the quandary had never been about the food. It was about the decision. A bad Tuesday ritual was still a Tuesday ritual. the frank & beans quandary