It’s how I met Aziz, the donut man on my corner: glazed, jelly, crullers a foot long, winking from the window of his flaming red cart like sugary whores whispering…
wanna a good time?
I’m not that kinda girl, I say, as we make awkward eye contact.
Aziz, like a matador, waves his cape to tempt me even when I say I have no cash, armed with only my prepaid Starbucks card.
“Ah, you could use a donut,” he says.”
Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, as my sugar count does the tango.
“You pay me tomorrow. I know you. I see you every day,” lowering a nicely wrapped cruller from the window.
I think for a second. Well, it would be rather rude not to accept since, he is making a friendly gesture.
Next thing I know, cruller and I are at the deli buying a quart of fat free milk.
A girl, after all, does have to make a sacrifice here and there, doesn’t she?