I was at the one at the corner of the noisy intersection by the taxi depot and the discount stereo place and the mosque. I was waiting to eat a donut, a slight glaze forming in my mouth in anticipation of the flaky sponge texture, the crisp sprinkles, followed by the sharp coffee taste. I thought I was doing it with aplomb. With a continental air. I was wearing my slip-on clogs. A woman in line behind me had a handbag on her arm that cost thousands of dollars. I recognized the bag. It was the same handbag Martha Stewart carried at her trial for insider trading.

Inside the bag was a miniature pig. A comically tiny pig. Its hide had such a lustrous, fuzzy smoothness that it reminded me of a pale peach. She also had a leash wrapped around her hand, at the end of which was a sleek gray dog whose head was so flat that it looked like a hammerhead shark.

That's a nice bag, I said.

Well, thank you, she said.

She touched it with some lazy fingers like it was a safety deposit box that could not be opened.

Do you know that you have a pig inside of it?

Of course I do, she said.

She had something of a Parisian accent. A continental accent. Outside, the stereo place was bumping. I could hear the call to prayer from the nearby minaret. The dog tugged at its leash. The dog had her, she didn't have the dog.

I found myself asking her questions, because that is what happens when I get nervous, and I always get nervous when in line.

That's kind of a weird thing to keep in a seven thousand dollar handbag, I said. Do you like having that sort of animal as a pet? When you are in a restaurant do you get chased by security guards? Do they think you stole that handbag?

As I spoke, her eyes seemed to expand, like a bell had gone off in her head, some inner alarm. When she spoke in reply, everything that came out of her mouth sounded to me like a jammed printer.

Regrettable! Litterbox! Sprinkles! she said.

Ma'am, the clerk behind the counter said to me, wearing the spiffy orange uniform. It is your turn now, ma'am, she said.

There was no one in line in front of me.

Oh, I said.

Behind the woman, there was now a cab driver waiting. Yet another person waiting for me.

Fine! I'll order! I thought.

Boston crème, I said. And coffee. Large.

I added, Please.

I watched the clerk, hairnet shining, as she fetched my order. She did it easily, like it was easy for her.

The woman's dog was up on its hind legs, sniffing the counter. The woman pulled back on the leash. She was sullen, avoiding my eyes.

I think I've met my requirement for speaking for the day, I said to her. How about you?

The woman shook her head. The pig was snuffling a little. The woman was scorched. I have this effect on people.

Dude, I said to the dog. Get down. I know. You're trying to get the donuts. I am too.

The clerk snapped the waxed paper. The donut slid into a crisp, colorful bag. 

As I turned away from the counter, the pig raised its glistening pink nose and looked at me from between the folds of the luxurious leather, its tiny black eyes seeming to say, Get me out of here.

To the woman I said, It's okay, we all have to go inside Dunkin' Donuts at times. And I left. Outside all the cabbies were eating from a food truck. Their voices were a flock of birds. I suddenly became unbearably sad. A mailbox stood at the firestorm of an intersection. Lights changed.

In the sky were acres of stars, there for the taking. Then the sadness lifted and it was the hour before dinner. An arpeggio played beneath the noise of the traffic. Walking, I ate the donut. I wondered if I wouldn't have preferred the simplicity of glazed. Would you, now? I asked myself. Martha Stewart. Now that is a woman who would have chosen the simplicity of glazed. That is a woman who conducted herself with aplomb. My thoughts on this subject were well documented.

At home, I prepared myself orange & fennel glazed pork cutlets, a common choice of mine. But then, in a moment, a crisp moment that unfolded like the wing of a paper crane, the food no longer seemed appetizing, there on its blue plate.

Look what you've done, I thought. You horrible, horrible person. I attempted to bat the thought away, but there it stayed, and I wondered what is truly required of us.



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