Craig could always count on a fresh batch of them, cooling on the kitchen counter, every time he started a diet, every time he went back to the gym.
“They just love them at work!” Cheryl would laugh and shrug her shoulders. Or: “There’s a baby shower Saturday for Patricia and she requested these!”
It was her one achievement in the kitchen, the donuts. Usually they ate take out or simple dishes that Craig had learned to make in college: spaghetti, stir fry, baked chicken. The freezer was packed with heat-and-eat meals. Craig didn’t know any married men who still ate Top Ramen, but he did, and often.
But the donuts. Somehow, Cheryl had learned to make them from scratch from batter to shiny glaze, and would lay them out on the counter to tease him with their fresh vanilla scent whenever he was able to fit into his nice slacks again, or pull his belt buckle back one extra notch.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, a dusting of flour across one cheek.
Today, Craig begins to document. Today, Craig decides he can be passive-aggressive too.