It rained most of the gray morning.
It was a clean rain cast down from the Heavens like a stream, pure and good, of sugary glaze onto the fragrant round orbs of baked yeast-cum-dough that await consumption by hungry mouths to satisfy a desire innate, yet nebulous. Overhead, the clouds are an indistinct blanket (perhaps more “comforterish” than “blanketish”) that speak to me in the arcane language of first and second proofs, and rise time.
The language of ‘Donutland.’
She stands on the desolate platform waiting for that train that’ll never come as a woman will wait for a delicate flaky crust with a bit of marzipan and slivered toasted almonds to come out the oven (and not in a sexist ‘she baked it’ kind of way). A swirl of smoke drifts from the cigarette she’s holding. She’s waiting for me under the roof of the small train station shelter. She’s out of the rain, which is now coming down in sheets (1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton). Her trench coat is tied around her waist, and drops of water adhere to the highly-polished toes of her black stiletto pumps, and my mind drifts to the place that there may be nothing but trench coat and woman.
Seeing me approach, she inhales one last time on the cigarette before dropping it onto the wet pavement and crushing it under the toe of her shoe.
“You’re late,” she says. “And, if you’re wondering, I do have a dress on under the coat.”
The Sword of Damocles falls, my fantasy crestfallen hard onto the hard concrete of the train platform on which I’m positioned.
“I have a poem for you,” I say.
She frowns. “Not again.”
I ignore her. “I call this poem “’Elegy on Doughnut Love’.”
Then I speak’eth the poem to her, to wit:
“We stand beside the Lemon Tree
We, hand-in-hand, hold a pastery
Upon the Glaze a spectacle to see
Upon the Cream our Life most prix
Our Love is vouchsafed like good kimchee
Our Love comes to us always like lustily
If the Universe rose in yeast-like fashion
Then Maple Bars asunder are Brazen
And Donutland hails with buns a’Blazing”
A lascivious smile creeps across her mouth, her lips colored in lipstick ruby red and full in stature.
“You always were the poet,” she says.
I move closer to her.
I smell her uniqueness mixed with a hint of White Linen. I crave her, her heart-shaped face and sharp chin and oh-so-supple lips in a way most desperate as a man who craves a crème-filled bun, but, alas, is unable to satisfy that bite as the baker is already sold out of the item.
“It comes to me,” I whisper. “The words.”
“You’re inferring that my remark was praise,” she whispers back. “But, never mind. I’m here for an altogether different reason.”
She turns her head from me and gazes onto the pleasurable aspect of Donutland, naked in all of its strip mall glory, the establishment’s outdoor mail box hanging crooked and showing the tops of letters stuffed one too many in the box like an exotic dancer’s g-string when the fleet is in port.
“You’re unfaithfulness,” she says.
I fumble. “I, well, what do you mean?”
She turns her head back to me, her mane of red hair swirling over her shoulder, he eyes wide and green under her eyebrows that are extremely well plucked (but not too severely) and of an agreeable shape.
“You’re buying grocery store doughnuts now,” she says. “The betrayal. Do your people know? The ones who, under your dishonest guise, consume these, ah, ‘doughnuts?’ Not knowing their true nature?”
I stutter a response, but not a good one.
“That’s not a good response,” she says, her voice reeking of derision. “I’m disappointed in you. You can do better.”
I look away from her.
Across the glowing steel railroad tracks, Donutland is framed against a mass of dark clouds. A rumble of thunder moves past us.
“We all make mistakes,” is all I can muster.
“There’s a storm coming,” she says. “Of glaze and yeast and other yumminess. Like an unleavened Pillsbury Doughboy. Pray you take care.”
And she walks from me and into the cold rain that still falls like heavenly glaze onto the world, making it all, for a minute minute, a Universal Doughnut for you and me to chow down with open mouth, to take in the pleasure of that magic.
I watch her go, and I still wonder if she’s wearing anything under that trench coat.