Choice

Sally Doyle stood in line and pondered. It was not uncommon for her to indulge her thoughts, especially in the mindless periods of waiting that permeated her daily life, whether it be sitting in traffic, standing on a subway platform, or, in this case, in line at the deli. It occurred to Sally that an infinite number of choices had lead to her to this city, to this borough, this street, this particular lunch counter that just so happened to be particularly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. If one of the tiniest switches of her life had flipped positive instead of negative, 1 instead of 0, who knows where she could have ended up? The thought frightened her.

The problem with multiple dimensionality, Sally thought, is the prospect of lost opportunity. If I worry endlessly about what could have been, how can I ever just be? She tried to push the thought from her mind. It was this kind of thinking that got her in trouble, that would lead to a lonely night with the half-finished bottle of dark rum sitting in her pantry from the last time she got caught up in paradoxical dilemmas. This was exactly the reason Sally hated waiting for anything. But even though she attempted to force the issue from her mind, all she did was mutate it into something not quite similar, but at the very least related.

There was a man. A man she loved, who was safe and generous and made her as happy as she's ever been. But, of course, there was another. The mutated thought swirled in the recesses of her mind. She loved the man she was with, but she could potentially love the man she wasn't with. And as everyone knows, she reasoned, it's the potential that excites us, the prospect of pure, uncontaminated happiness that is inevitably poisoned by whatever infidelities either of us may secretly harbor that will eventually come to light that drives us to pursue, to hunt, to date. Her thoughts were obviously lingering on the concept of choice for a reason. She had a potentially life changing decision ahead of her, possibly just beyond this lunch counter. When would the nagging feeling of lost opportunity force her to tell the man she loved to stop loving her? She would have to move on. I can't live with the thought, she thought. That constantly lingering question of "What if?" precluded any possibility of settling down for Sally Doyle.

She thought back to her first date with The Man she was with. It was a clear, if a bit blustery, post-rainstorm type of day. They had quietly walked through the park, sharing little save for breath, people-watching--as they still do together to this day--taking in the calm air not alone, but together. It was a wonderful beginning to a satisfactory middle, heading for a disappointing end. That's my problem, Sally blinked as she took a tiny step forward in line, I'm infatuated with the start, but always let down by the finish. She considered the possibility that she was not the only one with this problem. Again, the thought frightened her. If she couldn't fully invest herself in someone else, how could anyone else fully invest themselves in her? And again, she forced the thought from her mind.

The line was moving excruciatingly slowly, much to Sally's chagrin. She did not want to have a nervous breakdown while waiting in line at the deli. She took a few deep breaths, pushing the possibility of being perpetually alone further down into the depths of her consciousness. The thought was not gone by any means, but it was at the very least waylaid for the time being. It would undoubtedly resurface again at some point. She briefly considered the menu hanging on the wall before succumbing to further introspection; her life was on the menu. Different jobs, different men, different apartments, all interchangeable save for the incontrovertible fact that they weren't. Every single thing about her present was constructed by her past. Had she not taken that art course back home, she never would have moved to the city, and because of the courses she took, her funds were severely limited, restricting her to the particular borough she inhabited, and the apartment she lived in, and the tiny art supply store near her apartment where she met The Man she was with (and later The Other Man, the man with such great potential). She took another step forward.

She was close now. It was nearly her turn. Sally thought: Is there any good reason for me to rock the boat? Is the prospect of change really that exciting to me? Yes. It is. I am not one to stay put, to leave things as they are. It's my fatal flaw, my insatiable curiousity for more, for something that I have not had, may never have, unless--that is--I choose now. This is my one chance for change. I am in love. But am I sure? Who is to say that what I call love now may not be completely eclipsed by the potential for love that I feel from someone else? Everyone is so different. Love is never the same. How could it be? It's impossible for me to transfer all of my feelings for one man to another without consequence. Would I call him by my former lover's name? Would that ruin everything? Or would he laugh it off, seeing through my insecurities and quietly chuckling at my naivete that I could possibly think I could have everything, experience everything in a single lifetime? The Man I'm with wouldn't laugh. The Other Man might, potentially. Sally stopped thinking.

She stepped up to the lunch counter, greeted with the choice:

For here or to go?