I saw my father-in-law tonight, and ended up staying longer than I usually do, until a little after nine. So when I stop off at the gas station to pick up a Coke for the drive home, the doors stubbornly refuse to let me in.

I press my nose up against the glass and can see inside: Chips! Candy! Blessed, life-giving caffeine! And all of it frustratingly out of reach. The lights are low, but if I squint, I can make out a few things in the murk: The sloshing of the Orange Bang machine; "fresh" donuts, stocked and ready for the rush; and two Sisyphean hotdogs, left for dead, eternally condemned to turn on the weenie warmer of the damned.

And I think about the guy, eleven hours from now, who will walk in and think that, hey, a dog and soda does sound like a good breakfast. And he'll pick one up and put relish on it -- that relish right there, with the cover off -- and some mustard and he'll get out to his car and take a big bite and... shudder... slightly. He'll make a sort of popping, crunching noise as he chews, strange white bits inside the hotdog's dried, leathery skin grinding against his teeth. He'll swallow, hard, and stick his tongue out and say, "Gah."

And then he'll take another bite.

Not that I'd know or anything.