Gerry was uncertain. Too many decisions. Blue shirt or grey shirt? Brown belt or black belt? Did it even matter anyway?
Simon wasn’t going to notice. It was too late into this promotional cycle for a pressed shirt and starched collar to make any difference.
That Coupé was going to have wait another six months at least.
But, wait, what if he cut back on some unnecessary items, went out a little less, or bought fewer watches? He could make the repayments then, right?
And besides, if he didn’t buy the snazzy little diesel guzzler NOW then summer would be over and he couldn’t drive with the roof down anymore.
Gerry went with the blue shirt and dark blue tie. Safe. Dependable.
He walked to the American diner at the end of the street. He could smell the baked goodness before he could see it.
Sticky sweet air.
The donuts were calling out, like sirens on the craggy rocks.
Be strong Gerry, he said to himself. BE STRONG.
The diner was furiously bright. Relentlessly upbeat music piped through the speakers. A caffeinated smile greeted him at the desk, coupled with a fake-chirpy ‘What can I get you sir?’.
Gerry wanted the world. If not that, then, a caramel filled, sugar frosted cholesterol bomb. NO! He wanted TWO! And a classic jam donut.
He ordered. Swift, polite. Transaction. Currency exchange. He yanked the ‘classic’ from the unnecessary box and took a bite. The simple carbohydrates going to work on his system immediately. Instant pleasure. Instant guilt. Delayed karma.
He took a look at his tie.
Splodges of strawberry jam gently slalomed down the silk threads. It was like his tie had been shot.
Oh well, he thought, there’s always next year.
