4” wide. 3.5” tall. You say I’m perfect. I love hearing that. And today’s something special. I’m improved! Six dashes of vanilla, 144 stirs, nutmeg, an ounce of cream, into the bag and ready. My new crown. Wedding white and you can smell me two blocks away.

In the queue, your rudeness makes us giggle. Some wait hours. Others all day. You jostle and shout, throw ugly stares and insults…but no visible scars left yet.

When you barge in, the owner’s son savors the desperation in your eyes. His father does too. Us? We like your fingers. You twitch. Fidget. You can’t wait and it’s intoxicating. You fumble and rip at our paper so rushed that some of me falls to the floor.

None care. Flecked in street filth and god-knows-what-else, you still shove me in your mouths and profess your love. I respect that.

The young one thinks it’s science: pure ingredients, verified methods. His senior says it’s craft: you just know. He was right for a time, but it’s the son’s story now. We’re perfected in our perfection, mass production and purpose. 

“Over here!” “I’m next!” Grunts and groans as we’re slammed down gullets, eyes roll back and your feral truth’s revealed. Such beauty. We applaud you. Our generous patrons and friends.

Then away you go; your satiety fleeting as you almost pass the line. Some re-queue. Just another taste. That flavor we like most: your self-respect.

Others resist. The boy asks, “Why?” “Pride,” says his dad, “but it can be broken, too” Just the right amount of sugar and pleasure in measure. That’s my brother’s next flavor; Salted Caramel Kiss. You’ll stampede to feast. But today I’m your suitor; our love’s sublime, because I am yours…and you, most certainly, are mine!