Krispy Kreme was a whim. I was ready to cocoon in my hotel room with a piece of writing that’s eluding me. Maybe, with no distractions, I could finally coax it out. I was really too full for a donut. I’d just eaten dinner, which featured thick steak fries, with a light brown crisp around the edges and soft centers. The perfect vehicle for copious amounts of ketchup. I’d eaten more fries than strictly necessary. I didn’t need a donut. So, I’d cruised right past Krispy Kreme the first time–straight onto the campus of a little liberal arts college. Wrapped up in reminiscing about college–with a growing certainty that youth really is squandered on the young–I’d completely forgotten Krispy Kreme. But the road I’d meandered down spit me right out in front of the Hot Now sign. Who am I to argue with fate? There is only one kind of donut at Krispy Kreme: a plain glazed donut. I’ll fight you about that if necessary. Tonight, mine came straight off the conveyor belt, so hot I could hardly hold it. The first bite dissolved in my mouth instantaneously. And miraculously I was transported right back to childhood, that part where every experience is wildly sensory and all that matters is right there, in that moment. The part where not having the donut would never be on the menu–back before the running, subliminal commentary, tabulation, preoccupation with my weight that I swear isn’t happening (but it is). And that fucking donut was so good I almost cried.