By the time I get to Dunkin Donuts, frustration and my lack of breakfast makes me a ravenous customer. It’s hard to stop at a dozen donuts, and I spend the drive to Georgia’s trying to decide if I want Bavarian crème, jelly, chocolate, chocolate frosted, or holiday sprinkled. It doesn’t really matter, because Georgia won’t care if I take a bite out of every one. That’s what an amazing best friend she is. I juggle the box, the cups, and my keys. I already have a key to her place, still bright because she hasn’t been in her apartment that long, and I haven’t been coming to it enough to make the key dull. I pop the door open and stand in the middle of her little cozy nest. “Georgie?” I call. “Are you up?” I put the donuts down on her cheery little dining room table, decked out in a red cloth with white candles in crystal holders and a glinting metallic platter.
