He had nothing to lose, and, nevertheless, he forgot his hat.
Bill was an ordinary man. No, more than that; bland, vanilla, grey. He would spend his childhood summer afternoons peeling the stamps off the letters he had collected during the year, and then proceed to stick them on his forehead, lying face up underneath the fan that hung from the ceiling. His mother couldn't help but stare at him, powerless, resigned to have a bland, vanilla, grey child.
Bill entered the pet shop. The movement made his bland garments, vanilla jacket, grey trousers, make a monotonous friction noise. He put his fishbowl on the counter. It was a glass bowl, spherical, the most stereotypical one you could imagine. There was a fish inside. A goldfish, clichéd, bland, and boring. He got it in a raffle the previous summer. They were engaged now. Her name was Wanda.
Bill asked for a can of fish food, resting his hat, black, bland, and boring, in front of him, on the counter, next to the fishbowl. That would be his worst mistake. The shop assistant, an unshaved youngster with a toothpick between his lips and a vacant expression, put the container on his end of the counter. Bill took a note from the ribbon on his hat and gave it to the young man. The boy took it and disappeared into the back of the shop. Bill stood there, staring blankly forward, alone in the shop, in a bland, vanilla, grey stance. Five minutes later he took the food and felt its weight, only to quickly put it in the fishbowl. The container floated on the water. Bill turned around and made his way to the exit. However, he stopped short of a couple of meters and retraced his steps. He had nearly forgotten his hat. He took it and stuck it on his head.
