Six Months of Donuts
Twenty-six Saturdays. They did not miss one.
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"Pick one."
He said it like it cost nothing. She looked at the case and did not pick one, and kept not picking one, and the glass fogged where she was breathing on it. Forty seconds. He was good at waiting. It was the only thing about him she found genuinely unfair.
"I'm not — " She stopped. The sentence had nowhere to go.
"Fine. The custard."
"That's my good eater."
"Don't."
He was already paying.
Six months is not a long time. It is twenty-six Saturdays, and they did not miss one.
"You always get the custard now," he said, somewhere around the eleventh, and she said "you always buy it" into the open box instead of at him. Her jeans had started coming back from the wash inside out. That meant she had been getting out of them in a hurry. That meant something she was not going to say at a bakery counter at ten in the morning.
By the twentieth Saturday the stool had stopped being a thing she sat on. It had become a thing she got onto.
Snap.
"That's the second one this month, babe."
"I know what it is."
She did not cover it. That was new. She let him see the gap where the button had been, and she watched him look, and she took another bite while he was still looking.
The table came later. The table was the part she noticed.
"Can you even —"
"It's fine," she said. "It fits."
It did not fit. He looked at exactly where it did not fit. Neither of them moved to fix it.
"One more?"
"…Yeah."
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