Ivy League Doughnuts

Vivian

Wake. Stretch. Shower. Then navigate through the bustling morning crowd to the subway via the corner coffee shop. A kaleidoscope of colors and the inviting bittersweet aroma of America's favorite pick—me—up dazzles my senses.

No offense to Paul Revere, but when I think of Boston and its exhausting list of historical figures, William Rosenberg is the name that warms my chest and tempts my tummy. It's my firm belief that his inspiration and influence in the business world fed my ambition to achieve the high merits that earned my acceptance into a well—known university north of the Charles River.

"Boston Kreme and a medium Dunkaccino, please."

I ignore the piercing glances, rolling eyes, and subtle head shakes behind me. Yes, at five foot eleven inches I can eat whatever I want and not gain a pound. Long, wavy, ink black hair and green eyes, a runway model on the outside. Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before. My personal assessment of the reflection in my mirror includes the words lanky, bony, witchy hair, monster eyes, and freaky freckles. A tiny grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I focus on my phone, moving my thumbs over the screen with effortless strokes to send off a text.

Me: Up, bitches? 2 hrs. to study then get your asses to work. The real world awaits.

Judgments are nothing more than presumptuous thoughts, flawed opinions at best. What lies beneath my veiled "perfection" is the ugly truth––my truth, my reality, my destiny. Though, for now, I grab my decadent treats and sashay out the door with a wicked smile.

Two years after I nailed the admissions interview, I have yet to see the inside of a Harvard lecture hall, but it won't be long now. Instead, I take the Red Line at Harvard Square to Central Square every morning while my two bitches enter the coveted black iron gates to "Grow In Wisdom." Since my hopes of love and marriage were snuffed out like a torch my senior year of high school, I have my whole life to focus on becoming a successful entrepreneur.

The air grows thick and musty on my final descent to the subway. And then I see him, my new visual indulgence. He first captured my attention a week ago. A sky scraper among the diverse sea of heads bowed and drawn into their handheld technological gods. But then again, when you're my height the bar for being considered tall is set pretty high. He must be at least six foot four with lean muscles, short sandy blond hair, and cornflower blue eyes. Sipping my Dunkaccino, I peek over the lid and worm my way through the morning crowd, positioning myself to get on the same car. Everyday he's dressed in faded jeans, an old T—shirt, and leather work boots. Maybe he's married, or has a girlfriend, but it doesn't matter. My infatuation will go no further than basking in his sexy aura and taking mental pictures to use for my own pleasure.

The train screeches to a stop and the whoosh of the hydraulic doors sets the crowd in motion. Most mornings I find a seat opposite my rugged blue—collar worker. We play a flirty game of peek—a—boo where I unabashedly stare at him until he glances at me then diverts his shy eyes, taking a deep swallow. I eat my Boston Kreme doughnut and sip my coffee keeping my eyes fixed on him. Click, click, click—I take my mental pictures.

This morning, however, the car is herded to capacity. I find myself next to him with my drink in one hand and my doughnut in the other. As the rest of the passengers cram in, I glance up and smile. He returns a hesitant smile, and for the first time I can see his straight white teeth and dimples. Holy crap! He has dimples. My heart rate increases exponentially as I lift my doughnut toward my mouth. Dimples! The doors fold shut and the train jerks forward before my legs have a chance to balance and root into the floor.

"Oh shit! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" I'm drowning in horrid humiliation while peeling my half—eaten doughnut off his gray T—shirt. I can't look at him.

Through my squinted eyes, all I see is a smeared glob of chocolate frosting in the middle of his shirt. Risking a glance, a grimace takes over my face while meeting his raised brows, eyes darting back and forth between me and his shirt. Depositing the doughnut back in the bag, I retrieve the wad of napkins I shoved in my purse and begin to wipe his shirt like a mother would do to a child. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't move. My brain registers the faint giggles and snickers from a few of the lucky commuters who have witnessed this embarrassing mishap. I may have to start taking the bus from now on, or dress incognito so I'm not recognized as the clumsy doughnut girl.

"It's fine," a deep voice sounds. Long fingers encircle my wrist, halting my frantic strokes. "It's just a shirt."

Biting my lips together, I nod unable to make eye contact. He releases my wrist and I shove the napkins into my bag.

"I, uh … I'm just so, very clumsy … embarrassed, and uh, again … sorry." I. Will. Not. Move. I shall stay bowed in shame until I leap from the train at the next opportunity.

"It's really okay, no need to feel bad."

"Central Square," the speaker sounds as the train's piercing brakes pull to a halt.

My frantic dash to the door threatens to take out a few unsuspecting passengers. I can't concern myself with that; sometimes casualties are unavoidable and necessary.