He took a bite.
Arthur faced a choice. He could abandon the ritual. Eat leftovers. Order a pizza. Let the Tuesday spell be broken. Or—and here was the rub—he could substitute. the frank & beans quandary
Then he saw them. A small, sad package of cocktail wieners. And a can of vegetarian beans in “maple-ish sauce.” He took a bite
He opened the pantry. The beans were there—a dusty can of B&M, as always. But the frankfurters were not. He checked the meat drawer. Empty. The freezer. A lone bag of peas. A chill, far colder than the freezer’s, ran down his spine. Eat leftovers
The corner store was still open. He walked the three blocks in a fine drizzle, rehearsing the geometry of the meal in his head. But the store’s cooler was a graveyard of culinary compromise. No all-beef. Only “poultry links” and something called “wheat-based protein tubes.”
He washed the dish, dried his hands, and wrote on the grocery list taped to the fridge: FRANKS. REAL ONES.