Perhaps it was wrong, but it was an innocent accident: I took someone else’s coffee from the bar this morning. I didn’t realize I’d done so until I was in the car, and then I was off.
My first thought was of regret: she was ahead of me in line with three young girls and she seemed nice. But, I thought, she’d like my drink: a nice vanilla latte. My second thought was that this would be one of those surprising minor diversions life sometimes presents. Chillin’ like the villain I felt myself to be, I prepared for a few ounces of serendipitous discovery.
Briefly, briefly, just until I drank the coffee. It was nasty. Some kind of a sugar-free-mocha-soy slurry. I was cutting through Wal-Mart by then, on the move and in no position to return to correct the mistake.
A dilemma fell on me like a Big Lots brick stack, hoisted too high on the top shelf: drink the nasty thing - to redeem my sin and to indulge my fate - or dump it. I tried another wee sip. Even nastier than before, its noxious powers amplified by the aftertaste of the first strong pull
I sidled toward the electronics section where I knew there was trash can. The vague, noncommittal fog lifted, I did a quick brush-pass by the bin, spiking the cup in a quick, decisive thrust. This done, I was off to the toy section to buy a birthday present.
