Thinking of Doughnuts

I'm thinking of doughnuts -- maple-glazed, cake or yeast, cinnamon twists, krispy kremes. It doesn't matter really what kind; I'm thinking of them. I see them sitting neatly arrayed in boxes. I smell them. I smell the coffee.

Years ago (just a few, although it seems like more), I used to take Ben down to the doughnut shop in the morning. It was a bi-weekly ritual. It was only walking distance.

Every other Saturday we'd do this. Roll out of bed, take showers, and walk down down the street. He'd order cake doughnuts with strawberry frosting (sometimes chocolate) and sprinkles. I would order a maple glazed, sometimes three. He'd order hot chocolate. I'd order coffee.

So I'm thinking of doughnuts, I am. And it's 10pm on a weekday night. Why does it have to be like this?

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