Since I’m distracted, I almost step around the man blocking my path, but then my mind catches the fishhook on the cap and the camo pants. Cash. He has a brown bag with a grease-stained bottom in one hand and an apple cider donut in the other. He’s wearing a forest green ribbed sweater that molds his arms and pecs. My mouth waters. “Hi,” he says. I don’t know what to say. He smiles, and it’s not tentative, not bashful or guarded in the least. It goes ear-to-ear. He’s so happy to see me. He holds out the doughnut. It’s a moment of decision. I suck at decisions. But I fucking love warm apple
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