In A Pickle

Garret opened his fridge door to tragedy.

He looked in his dill pickle jar, only to see no pickles, just brine. He checked the bread & butter pickles – the same. His mustard pickles were only mustard now, and in his zucchini pickle jar there wasn’t even the brine – he remembered, now, drinking that yesterday.

Garret was pickle-less, and this was a terrible tragedy.

His daily ritual was to eat ten pickles – four at 10:00am, two with lunch, and four more at 3:00pm. He loved his pickles, or as a last resort, anything that tasted like them.

He considered drinking the brine from the dill pickles, but the brine-swilling yesterday had made him nauseous. He could only take so much, and his limit for the week was reached. He considered putting some cucumbers into the brine, but his experiments in that had ended poorly, a sad facsimile of the real thing that wasn’t worth the effort.

So Garret sighed and closed the fridge. He walked away, only to return ten minutes later and stare again, to the same effect. He spent most of the day doing this, before making a note to stock up on pickles at the store that evening.

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