White lace demurs, and the Universe abides her satin breath, warm with subtle hints of cinnamon and marzipan. And on this breath comes cloyingly her whisperers into my good ear, her lower lips speckled with a smear of sugar glaze.
For it’s Friday. Donutland beckons.
Donutland. That anchor of a building with faded gray concrete masonry units that mirror the stormy fall sky resplendent with a cold rain glazing forever. A culinary establishment that one may say with certitude is a rheologist’s Shangri-La, and singly frames her wanton cravings for shaped units of Sucrose and Whey of which I am helpless to deny her, nor would I if able.
“Are you finished with that French cruller?” she continues, her hand brushing my forearm, as she takes the delicate dough ring from my clutch.
“I was not…”
She presses her long finger to my lips.
I watch as she closes her eyes and brings that dough ring that was formally mine to her mouth, her lips red, her teeth white.
And she bites.
As she chews, she re-opens her eyes. “One ring to rule them all.”
“Indeed,” I say.
I turn from her and gaze upon the pastry case as the Fog of Desire envelopes us. I contemplate this place of Long Johns and fritters and all manner of Yummy Dough Structures under tangentic stress and marvel at their use of coefficients and junk, and know this place is akin to the likes of no other.
I return my gaze to her. With a daintiness all her own, she brushes the cruller’s crumbs from her sheer blouse. Her lips form a smile.
She draws me to her. “Are you going to eat that old fashion?”
I frown. “Just don’t touch my bear claw.”
And so love goes on much as it has always.
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