I would very much like to buy a little something.
One of those little somethings that a little peckish someone decides they can excuse to themselves in one way or another.
It will surely be some kind of pastry or chocloately thing of some sort. It is that time of day. It is going to be a treat. And I am going to revel in tastification station, lap upall the sensual glories of luxurious deliciousness that such a thing could offer. I must choose carefully.
I must take each one into my mind's eye, hold it up to the light, turn it over slowly, sink into it for a moment, and see where it would leave me were I to choose it in reality. Each one. If the decision is going to be a good one, I can't take anything for granted.
But there is a pressure squeezing from outside, a pair of eyes trained on me, trained yet devoid of expression, a pair eyebrows cocked expectantly yet hardly out of place, the frosty force of that inaudible, inner, impatient sigh. Like a clip around the ear, she wants to know if I have chosen yet. She is worried about the other people, because I came in before them and it would violate the rules of accurate and appropriate queue formation if she were to serve them before me. But I don't care about her queue; I have a much more important queue of imagined pastry samples to deal with before I can possibly even contemplate her human queue.
I am going to have to take a deep breath and hold in mind that this decision is far more enjoyable than she remembers.
And then I think I will find a bench and have a little contemplative sit-down in which to appreciate the end-product of such a momentous decision and subsequent purchase.
How super.