Broken Hearts and Krispy Kreme

I can't get out of bed. For the seventh day in a row.

My legs are heavy, and I spend most of my time searching for the light inside the hole that has swallowed me. I have watched all eight seasons of Weeds.

Friends call, concerned that I'm not handling “The Break-Up” well, but I've learned how to pretend. I listen to them blather on about their jobs and kids and manage to sound like I’m not suicidal until they finally hang up.

In the middle of Judge Judy there is a knock on the door. I ignore it. They are stubborn. I turn up the volume. They knock louder. I throw back the covers and tiptoe to the front door. I peek through the curtain. It's my friend Rita.

She walks into the living room. I don’t know how the stack of newspapers, half-drunk diet-Coke bottles, and empty Chinese food containers have suddenly appeared.

Get dressed, she says.

I'm not going anywhere.

She puts her hands on my shoulders, spins me around and pushes me toward the bathroom.

Wash your face. And brush your teeth.

Ten minutes later we're in her Honda Odyssey. She hands me a white paper hat with the Krispy Kreme logo scrolled on the side.

Put it on. She pulls another one from her bag and places it on her head.

I obey. It's easier than arguing.

We both look stupid.

It’s March in Tampa and we drive with the windows all the way down. The air feels good on my skin. She lights a cigarette and I try not to cry as Beyoncé sounds the battle cry for all the single ladies.

We pull into the parking lot of the Krispy Kreme on Kennedy Boulevard.

Had I known I'd be seen by the public, I might have worn something besides Joey Buttafuco pants and a pink velour sweatshirt.

Inside, we head to the back and join a line made up of a dozen five-year-olds and a few adults.

We're going to see how the donuts get made.

Really? This is why I got dressed?

There are squeals of delight as we head into the kitchen, all of us wearing our crinkly paper hats like good Krispy Kreme soldiers. An employee shows us how to make the famous glazed donuts, the ones with jelly and the apple fritters. The children watch in awe, as if he conjures wine from water.

A little blond boy asks when we are going to get our donuts. The employee assures him it will be soon.

Can I get mine with sprinkles? he asks.

I am surrounded by children, who don't yet know heartache or homework. They laugh about everything. The hot glaze dripping from the endless rows of metal racks. The teenager mopping the floor who makes faces behind one of the chaperones. A donut that drops on the floor.

It's contagious.

The presentation is over, and we head into the seating area. Rita buys two cups of coffee to accompany our free donuts and we sit at a table not far from the group. This has been fun, but I feel the darkness coming for me.

As I lift the paper cup to take a sip, the paper from a straw hits me in the forehead.

The children erupt in laughter. I am not strong enough to hold out. Rita and I collapse in a fit of giggles. When I am able to breathe again, I stand up, walk over to the station with the straws and pull one out of the holder. I bite off the end of the paper and push it down until I see the bright red of the straw.

I stroll over to the tables where the kids are, the straw behind my back.

Which one of you shot a straw at me?

Several of them point to a girl with a brown ponytail, who now stares down at a half-eaten donut in front of her.

Was it you? I ask as the adults look on. She nods her head.

I whip the straw out from behind me, clamp my teeth on the plastic and blow in her direction. The white paper whizzes through the air and lands in the glaze of the donut in front of her.

She looks at me and smiles.

We're even, I say.

I return to the table and finish my coffee. On the ride home I look at my friend, my heart split between gratitude and hopelessness.

That was just what I needed, I tell her.

I know, she says. Krispy Kreme Donuts fix everything.

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