The jars were nearly identical. They always are. However, what subtle differences there were would prove critical over the next few weeks. They even had the same price, one dollar and ninety-nine cents. Standing at my position above the bottom shelf, where the cheap grape-based condiments rested, I locked in on the proper jar and set my right hand on a course for it. On the descent, I chuckled to myself about a recent conversation with I had with a friend, who claimed that there was no difference between the two. Naturally, I corrected him. The main difference is that while the texture of grape jelly is awful and unnatural with a taste that borders on negligible, jam is actually pretty alright.
My hand swooped up its target. The quest for groceries may continue.
Later, now, I stand in my kitchen. Despite the usual quiet of my apartment, I can tell at this late hour that whatever virtually inaudible noise filters in through my walls has now gone to rest. This, of course, is a realization I save for retrospect. My energies are currently focused on the peanut butter and grape jam sandwich I am making. With effort, I twist off the cap for my new jar of grape goodness. A spoon is retrieved from the drawer. I dig into the flat surface near the mouth of the jar. Immediately, I can tell something is awry. Nonetheless, I proceed. The grape-flavored gob lands too neatly on the bread. It jiggles too much. It’s too red. It’s too gelatinous. Gelatinous.