One of our customers arrives at the end of the lunch rush, almost every day. He arrives late so that, I imagine, he won't be holding up other customers.
"What will it be today, sir?"
A pause as long as a piece of string. (A long one).
"I.... don't know yet."
"That's ok. Would you like granary or white?"
"Well.... that depends on what filling I get. Hmm."
Another pause, this time the pause is as long as his beard (about two inches) and as silent as his hair is white (not completely).
"Um. Hmm. I'll have the..."
(another pause)
"Smoked mackerel please! On.... Granary."
"An excellent choice! Would you like a drink with that?"
"Oh. Yes, I would."
And he wanders over to the drinks fridge, where he stares at the modest drink selection until long after his sandwich has been prepared. Wondering, I expect, which drink would go best with the mackerel. (Fentiman's Seville and Mandarin Orange Jigger, apparently).
Then he pays, thanks us, and leaves, briskly.
We do not begrudge him for his lengthy decision time. Far from it. I personally admire him. I admire him for the care he puts into such seemingly insignificant choices. His sandwich is so important to him that he requires a great deal of pondering. I wonder if he takes the same care when deciding what to wear each day, or which section of the paper he wants to read first, or which brand of toothpaste to buy. I imagine his life is slow and careful, and that every choice he makes is perfect.
I like to think he has no regrets.
Or perhaps it is regret that makes him so careful in the first place.
I hope he didn't regret the mackerel.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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