The fish arrives at your table. It's beautifully, perfectly broiled. You beam brightly and tell the chef (who's missing a couple of teeth and whose eyes don't focus real good) that he's a genius. And because his customers view perfect fish as their entitlement, he's never been complimented in his life, so the acknowledgement means something.
But you take a bite, and it's a tiny bit dry. Just the tiniest bit, but it can't be denied: he over-did it. Slightly. Still delicious! Still within parameters! But he's no...no...
Your thought stream stalls. The sentence won't complete.
Are you averse to admitting your error? Would it scrape your ego to retract the mental assessment?
Or are you loathe to puncture your glowy sensation of virtue? Too self-satisfied from the dramatic vignette?
None of those things. The fish is dry, and he is a genius, and he'll nail it next time.
You go back another day, and he nails it.
Was I right the first time? Or did I make it happen with my beaming encouragement? Or did the flow work itself out while I simply waited? Or did I frame truth by my choice of start and end points?
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