Deep, Deep Donuts by Megan Wade
Wes
The moment that donut goes sailing out the window, my heart sinks and my stomach rumbles. I could’ve eaten that donut. Now, it’s no better than roadkill. It’s like she’s taunting me,and honestly, I don’t understand why. I mean, what’d I ever do to her?
My peddling becomes halfhearted as the donut truck rounds the corner and I slow to a stop at the road sign, looking at the strawberry glazed donut in the gutter. It’s covered in dirt and leafy debris and is already being fought over by seagulls.
“Enjoying that?” I ask a particularly noisy one as he scarfs the sticky chunk of fried dough down his skinny neck. It creates a bulge because he doesn’t bother chewing, and when it hits his stomach, he lets out a shriek, squabbling with the other seagulls over the remaining crumbs before flying away. “Yeah. Strawberry glazed is my favorite too.”
Releasing a sigh, I turn my bike toward the lake so I can get back to my rounds before my lunch break is over. A lunch that once again, doesn’t consist of a delicious donut.
And is that too much to ask? For the last six weeks, I’ve spent my days cycling around the perimeter of the lake, keeping the peace between fun-seeking travelers and noise-affected locals. All while keeping my cool on ninety-plus degree days. I don’t think I need to spell out the fact that bicycle cops don’t get a heck of a lot of respect. So, couple the frustration of that with the fact that I can't get a goddamn donut when I want one and it’s driving me fucking mad.
Every single day I barely get within a whiff of that van before it shuts up shop and takes off down the street. The folks milling about say the owner—a cute and curvy blonde—announces she’s sold out each time. So since my timing is obviously super sucky, I’ve taken to trying to chase her down to try to put in an order for the next day. But she never, ever stops. At this point, I’m willing to pay triple the price just to satisfy the craving that delicious, deep-fried dough and warm sugar scent has teased me with for weeks. I mean, what’s a guy got to do to get his hands on one of those things? Customers rave about them, and they’re willing to search the lake and line up all day for the chance to purchase one. But since she never sets up in the same place two days in a row, it’s like trying to find a floating island in the mist. And after today, I’m starting to wonder if it’s me she’s got a problem with. Because if she can throw a donut out the window, she can’t be sold out, can she?
“Is the donut lady in trouble, officer?” a young boy asks upon my dejected return, cinnamon sugar dusting the corners of his lips.
“No, buddy. I was just hungry, but she got away before I could buy something,” I say, scrubbing my hand over the top of his head. “Looks like you got some, though.”
He grins. “Sure did. I’d ‘ave saved you one if I’d known, but they were too tasty so I ate ‘em right away.”
“It’s OK,” I say with a wink. “Reckon I’d have done the same thing.”
“Did you run her plates?” he asks as I start to wheel my bike away. “Maybe you can find out where she lives and ask for donuts there.”
I laugh before I pause and turn back to face him. “I actually tried that. But those plates are registered to a retired woman in Dallas. She says she sold it to a young woman, who I’m guessing is the woman we keep seeing.”
“She’s real pretty.”
“That she is,” I say with a grin. “And one of these days, I’m gonna catch her. Just you wait and see.”
