“There are things which, though lovely in form, reveal themselves in time. For time has a way of exposing what appearances try to withhold: the truth that lies beneath.”
Not a firework.
Not an elephant.
Just a fry.
It looked perfect.
Golden. Crisp. Curled like it had just rolled out of a food commercial.
Not the kind of fry you’d walk past—
the kind you pop in your mouth on instinct. On memory.
But memory will lie to you.
And so will a french fry after fifteen minutes.
Yesterday, I made the mistake of trusting what I saw.
The fry had been sitting there, quietly pretending to still be fresh.
It hadn’t shriveled. It hadn’t darkened. It hadn’t even cooled all the way.
It looked good.
I took a bite.
And I immediately regretted it.
The taste was off—not just cold, but wrong.
Like the oil had turned against it. Like the joy had left the building.
I spit it out without apology-
seems manners left with joy too.
The fry was a notably pretty lie.
And it reminded me that not everything that looks right still is.
Some things expire softly.
Without warning.
And still have the nerve to sparkle.
...The Rest Is His Story 
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