On the ceiling, the subway monitor informs me another train is due in ten minutes. Fingers crossed it’ll be on time; otherwise, I’m going to be late, and I can’t afford to be. I’ve spent months hunting for a new office, ever since the rent on my current space skyrocketed and I had no choice but to cancel the lease. But so far, I’ve had no luck. All the places I’ve seen were out of my budget or not to my taste—as in, they wouldn’t be to any sane human being’s taste, unless they favored dingy holes with no light, no windows, stained walls, and fifty-year-old carpet.

And the clock’s ticking—not just to get to my appointment, but to find a new place, too, as I have to move out of my office next week. In short, I have everything staked on the newly-renovated business complex I’m supposed to be visiting in less than an hour, assuming I can make it to Brooklyn Heights in time.

Luckily, the next train pulls into the station on the dot, and, with no other corner-cutters in heels before me, I hop in first and even find an empty seat.

Aha.

Now I can get to my appointment on time, and I don’t have to grab onto an overhead handle while being jostled right and left, as that red-wearing woman is surely doing right now.

Despite the unexpected setback, I reach my destination with fifteen minutes to spare; just enough time to grab a quick breakfast first. I find a Starbucks in my path that’s surprisingly not too busy, so I step in and give the female barista my standard order.

“Tall cappuccino, double espresso shot, easy on the foam. And a donut, please.”

“Right away, sir.” The young woman behind the counter smiles at me. “Could I have your name, please?”

“Lucas,” I say. “Luke is fine.”

Her smile widens. “Luke it is.” The barista rings up my order, and frowns. “I’m sorry, sir, it looks like we’re out of donuts. Could I get you anything else to eat?”

Disappointed, I take a quick look at the bakery display. “A blueberry muffin is okay, thanks.”

I pay and move to the other end of the line to wait for my drink. In my peripheral vision, I catch a flash of red and turn toward it… And why am I not surprised to see a heart-shaped mouth bite down on a mouthwatering, double-glazed donut?

What should’ve been my donut.

Looking away from both woman and pastry, I try to convince myself the muffin is going to taste just as delicious as the donut.

It won’t.

When my cappuccino is ready, I move outside, since it’s a sunny day none too cold for March in New York. I hate eating and walking, so I sit at one of the metal tables and sniff the muffin.

Mmm.