One Hundred Forty-One

I remember a time, years ago, in an old, worn coffee shop, when I saw a man sheepishly wipe caked sugar from his face.  Coffee had dribbled from his cup, catching his lower lip and chin before it spilled onto his shirt. He didn’t notice until he put a sugar-crusted glazed doughnut in his mouth. Then, his chin became awash in doughnut detritus. My discomfort with doughnuts began that very day.