Tuesday morning- seventeen years ago

A man walks into a donut shop; the dim glow from the light pierces his eyes as the sun has not risen yet. Standing behind the counter is a woman at least three times his age. The two exchange greetings as the man looks over the vast array of handmade delights.

He selects two ordinary cake donuts, and asks for a coffee too. The woman gets the donuts and puts them in a small paper sack before pouring the steaming black liquid into a white Styrofoam cup.

“Three ninety-two,” the woman says with a smile.
The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wadded five-dollar bill. He hands the woman the money, still examining the lines in his hands- filled with dirt and grit.

He finds a booth and sits down. The paper rustles softly as he reaches for that first donut. He looks around at the white-painted brick walls, the dingy floor tiles and the ancient stools perched next to the small counter.

The man is taken back to a place he had gone many years ago with his grandfather, before a morning of fishing. He pictures himself staring out of a plate-glass window at the steam rolling out of the tailpipes of cars on that chilly morning. How the tattered seats of the corner booth in that café were the most comfortable seats in the whole world. The way his grandfather smiled at him over his coffee cup, and the first bite of that extraordinary cake donut.