Regret Day

It doesn’t feel like a bad decision. You’re there, it’s late, and the nachos are right in front of you. Chips in a tray, a metal pump labeled “cheese” like that settles anything. You grab the tray.

The pump is where it starts to go wrong. You press it once and nothing happens. Then it hits. A thick, darker plug pushes through first, dense and slightly separated, like it’s been sitting there longer than it should have. You watch it land on the chips and hesitate just long enough to recognize it for what it is. Then you press it again.

Now it flows. Faster than expected, smoother, almost convincing. You try to guide it, move the tray, pretend there’s a way to distribute this evenly. There isn’t. You add more than you planned because once you’ve started, stopping early feels like a worse decision than continuing.

By the time you’re done, it looks acceptable from a distance. Enough to carry away without thinking too hard about it.

The first bite confirms everything. The texture, the taste, the way it sits there without improving anything around it. Exactly what it looked like when it came out of the pump.

You keep eating. Not because it’s good, but because it exists now. Because you made it. Because stopping halfway through doesn’t undo the part where you decided this was worth doing.

You tilt the tray slightly and nothing moves. Not the chips, not the cheese. Everything holds exactly where it is.

You’re already thinking about what this cost.

It’s not money.