Evil’s Glaze

An overhead bell announces my entrance.  I cross the 1970's linoleum slabs that checkerboard the entrance.  The spinning blades of a rickety fan force the air's sticky scent into my nostrils.  A tall, zit-encrusted boy glares.  He pulls his hands from behind his green apron and points to the flashing red sign in the window.

"Hot, Ma'am?" he says.

His plastic name tag claims he is Assistant Manager.  His arms dangle above the glass display case.  I try to keep his gaze, but my eyes roll down like an old chevy falling off a cliff, coming to rest in a wake of mangled parts and smoke.

And there they are.  Shiny metal sheets oozing glaze covered donuts.