“I am waaaaay too drunk to read terms and conditions!” I wailed, peering at my phone screen as an image filled with the teeniest, tiniest writing appeared with another zap. “But goddamn it! I really, really want gluten-free donuts!”

My phone screen went black. I tapped it. Nothing. I shook the stupid thing.

“Did all that extra electricity use up all your battery?” I asked it, thumping it against the sofa armrest. “Or did I just forget to charge you last night?”

The doorbell rang. I froze. My heart worked its way up into my throat.

I did not like answering the door at night.

I especially didn’t like answering the door at night … when I was home alone … when my phone had just died.

But a smell wafted into my nostrils.

“Ooooh,” I moaned, my body lifting off the couch and practically floating towards the door, any worries in my wine-addled brain drifting away as the smell intensified.

I unlatched the door. It swung open of its own accord.

“Cinnamon!” I moaned, blinking down at the white box on the floor. There was a picture of a donut with the letters GF on the front and a technicolour logo that read ‘FriendPay’.

“It worked! No way!” I cried, falling on the box and dragging it back inside the apartment, plonking it onto the coffee table, almost knocking my empty wine glass in the process. Steam wafted from a vent hole in the top of the box, and I moaned again, the sound almost pornographic. I slowly lifted the lid.

The box was stuffed to the brim with the biggest, fluffiest, sugariest donuts I’d ever seen. I fell on them like a drunken fiend, grabbing the closest one and mashing it into my face.

“Oh. My. God!” The words were garbled around my mouthful as I chewed frantically. “Holy … this is the best!”

I chewed and swallowed and stuffed and chewed and swallowed and stuffed … until my mouth was so donutty that I needed to fill my wine glass and wash it down.

“Take that, douchebag donut dude!” I muttered, staring down into the empty box. I collapsed back against the side of the sofa, crumbs of dough and grains of sugar and cinnamon coating my fingers, face, and clothes.

My stomach was full, my brain was fuzzy, and I didn’t want to think anymore.

So I fell asleep.

* * *

I woke with a start. Early Sunday sunlight stabbed at my temples.

“Ugh!” I mumbled, rubbing my gritty eyes. I was sprawled on the lumpy rug, my head lolling at a strange angle against the sofa. I rolled my neck, looking around. The wine cask was on its side. I lifted it, shocked at how light it was.

“Wine headaches are the worst,” I grouched, rolling to my knees and stumbling to the kitchen. I filled a glass with water, popped two paracetamol and took a long drink, licking a drop off my lips.

Cinnamon and sugar.