Growing up in Honolulu I knew a girl.  Her name was Sasha.  She was a few years older than I was.  I was two.

I knew Sasha through my Uncle Ray.  One day, we were in a room of a hotel that my Uncle was employed at.  I don’t have a clear recollection of why we were there.  Perhaps he was babysitting us, or maybe we went to visit him, anyone’s guess will be as good as mine.

Sasha and I were comfortably sitting on the soft feathery carpet, avoiding eye contact for most of the duration of our stay.  Meanwhile, Uncle Ray drenched himself into the single seat couch, looking out the window and staring into the dark eyes of Diamonhead Crater.  I sat there criss cross applesauce style and still as a photograph, not uttering a single word to Sasha or my Uncle.  She, on the other hand, was seven notches more active than I was.  Sasha drowned herself into the television set presenting some program I had no interest in. Every commercial break or so, she’d turn around and indulge herself into the one detail of this memory I remember the most – mini sugar powdered donuts.  She didn’t share with me.  What a bitch.

So I continued to just sit there, ogling at her crumby plump rings of sweet pastries. Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with the carpet like it was my mom’s hair.  My attention began to move frantically from Sasha, the television set, my Uncle Ray, my fingers, and to the coveted donuts.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry fat, isolated little island boy would do.

With my quick-like-a-cat greedy little hands, I pounced on one of her delicious donuts while she wasn’t looking and shoved it into my mouth.  Sasha didn’t catch me in the act.  She did, unfortunately, realize that her once family of four donuts were down to three.  She also couldn’t help but notice my peculiar white, powdery lips and my cheeks bulging at maximum capacity.

Fast forward nineteen years.  I’m living the Bay Area in California. At the time I had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-one.

We’re drying two baskets of clothes at a laundromat we frequented.  Being the big, bulky guy that I am, I get pretty hungry while staring at the colors and the whites go round and round.  Lucky there’s some neighboring food places – a Mexican restaurant, a liquor store, a 7-Eleven, and a donut shop.

I chose the donut shop.  I treated myself to an apple fritter and decided to get an old fashioned chocolate doughnut for her.  I devoured my pastry in two seconds while she gracefully and neatly picked at hers, breaking off small portions seemingly every five minutes.

So I continued to just sit there, on top of the counter ogling at her crumby rugged ring of chocolate covered pastry.  Suddenly my mouth began to water; to keep myself busy I played with my fingertips and nervously fondled with my Dr. Pepper cap.  My attention began to move frantically from my girlfriend, the clockwise spinning dryers, my cap, and to the coveted donut.  This process stayed on repeat to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I did what any other hungry, fat grown up living in the Mainland would do.
I asked her if I could have a bite.  And without hesitation she said, “Go ahead!”  I gently broke me off a piece, popped it in my mouth, and life was good.  I finally earned redemption for stealing a donut nearly two decades prior.

Fast forward thirteen years.  Dare to D.R.E.A.M.; donuts rule everything around me.  And this shirt is available for purchase here:

https://www.IRUNSF.com/onlinestore

Oh, and I’m sorry Sasha.  Wherever you are.

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Originally written in 2005.  D.R.E.A.M. segment was added for the ’19.