It was the only thing I could find open along that highway that early.
It was a nice little eatery...30 years ago. Now there was grime between the floor tiles, and grime between the seat cushions. Grime worked itself into every crevice it could find.
And they made donuts just liked Tom's did.
It was something I hadn't smelled since I was 17 and dating Angie - a name I couldn't remember if asked for it without the smell of fried donuts, sickly sweet old jellies, and powered sugar in the air.
She was tiny and never ate them, but always had two waiting for me on nights I picked her up. Tom's Donuts were the smell of new love and summer sex. But after a few months passed it was just the stink of someone needing to shower after work.
The smell got to me. One day I missed a closing - then missed them all. Feelings were hurt, guilt was carried and buried deep unearthed by the smell of donuts.
Time to drive. It's five hours to Atlanta.
--
Howard McEwen, CFA
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