The Candy Bar
I purchased two Snickers® and immediately regretted my choice, not the choice of a Snickers®, I love Snickers®, but my choice of a candy bar, two candy bars. This is no way to lose weight, I thought. The extra pounds, my extra pounds had forced my trousers to strain at every seam, seams barely holding, seams on their last threads.
The seams held but the wrapper containing the first Snickers® did not. A Snickers® is a Snickers® I thought as it, to my delight, broke out of its wrapper. I began to eat, it was delicious, full of nuts, and of caramel, and of chocolate. The bar stretched as I bit off a piece forming a narrow sliver of chocolate with a nut perched on the end, a chocolate serpent enticing me to continue. I did, and no sooner did I finish it than my thoughts returned to my extra pounds and bursting seams. I was alone, with nothing but guilt, and remorse, and a second Snickers® bar in my pocket to keep me company.
I continued on my way, perhaps an earthquake would interrupt my journey and I’d be crushed beneath a mountain of brick, the extra pounds no longer a load I’d have to carry. And in my pocket for the first person who discovered me was a Snickers® candy bar.
A transient materialized on the sidewalk in front of me. I instinctively reached into my pocket for some spare change, but instead found the second Snickers®.
“Would you like a Snickers® bar?” I asked. “I had two but I’ve already eaten one. You’re welcome to this one.”
He hesitated.
“If you don’t want it just say so,” I said.
“No it’s not that,” he said, “Thanks.”
He took the bar. I wondered if his would stretch like mine did when he bit into it, I wondered if he’d eat it now or wait until later. I wondered if his would look like a serpent to him.
I was about to leave when he smiled and said, “but next time could you make it a Milky Way®.
“A Milky Way®?” I said.
“Yes, a Milky Way®,” he replied.