Choices

Photo by Ryan McGuire

Photo by Ryan McGuire

How do you feel about that moment when, as he twists the cover off the pickle jar, the veins in his neck begin to show, the muscles in his arms begin to tense, and his ribs become clearly visible? How do you feel as this bare-chested man grits his teeth and struggles against the vacuum seal that’s keeping you from your midnight snack? Do you wonder why he has his shirt off in the first place, or do you simply revel in the sight of a man fighting the last great battle of his life?

When he slaps the jar down onto the counter in defeat and skulks away, when you pick it up and twist the blasted cap off with one swift flick of your far smaller wrist, do you tighten it back up a bit, tell him that no, he didn’t hear the tell-tale pop, and ask him to give it one more try? Do you do that, or do you say the hell with his male pride and start eating the pickles?

The pickles, I say. Eat the fucking pickles.

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