Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Went to the East Village Cheese Shop and purchased too much food. Courting disaster. Five pounds of gouda for six dollars? A Bulgarian feta backpack? How about halvah smeared on a baguette with a hogshead of pot cheese? $10, and they printed the receipt on a slice of cheddar.

Back at the desk I faced a problem. Two pounds of food. But then realized: I need not eat all of this, or even much of it. I certainly don't need to eat a 1/2 lb. of feta. (There is only an hour left before this overnight flight lands. Crammed against the window, a panda in a cage, I watched the sun rise over the Atlantic and thought about all the linked desire and cunning, the apery that put me in this moment, widders and slends. What will life be like when we land? No one will meet me at the gate.) Yes, I knew that I didn't need to eat all of it; and yes it felt good not to want to eat all of it, but what felt better was the indifference. Knowing that I need not fear myself quite so much. So that is an insight: I am not as bestial as I thought; destruction and self-damage are not my prerogatives. I was, and am, not evil, merely ignorant. I can throw away the grape leaves, or refrigerate them or toss them at the literary editor. I AM A NORMAL BOY MISTER GEPPETTO A REGULAR BOY! Except for the hickory tuna salad. I had to eat a half-pound of that.