What's behind the door? Why is it closed?

My fingers graze the wooden panel. A crack slivers my pointer finger. I lift my hand to examine the wound. A tiny piece of wood, so small I almost can't see it, causes more pain than it should. I try to get the sliver out, but it's stuck too deep for my nails to dig. I palm my knife, but decide against it. Too much of someone else's blood stains the blade to plunge it into my skin. Staring at the intruder, I wonder if it's an omen. An omen not to open the door.
I fill my lungs with moist, mold filled air. It's so thick I can almost taste the salt and grime on my tongue.
Waves crash into the far wall. A shudder runs through the empty room. Years of rot and decay are weakening the structure, bringing it down to the mother earth who once bore it.
 I wonder if anyone else is on the island. Alive. Am I the only one left? Will I have to bury my comrades? I cringe to think what state their bodies will be in by the time I emerge.
I keep my eyes open. Afraid to close them and see the images that have haunted my nightmares since the attack. They didn't train us for this. The mental anguish that plagues a soldier. Physical preparation is such a small part of war. Sure, you need the muscle, but you need the mental capacity to go with it.
The rhythmic water lulls me into placing my hand on the door again. I haven't heard anything other than those waves in days. Maybe I am the only one. Do I dare open the door and find out? I shuddered, imagining all the carnage awaiting me on the other side.
My stomach growls, twists, and begs me to make my decision. Either stay here and starve, or venture out and survive. If survival is an option.
The door knob is cool as I wrap my hand around it. My heart is pounding, warming my body, preparing for a fight. A trickle of sweat, mixed with the abominable humidity makes its way down my forehead. I swipe it away with my free arm. This is it. Let's go.
The door doesn't want to open. I pull on it, noticing for the first time the deep gouges in the dirt packed floor from where the door has been drug back and forth across it. Did I make any of those dents when I slammed it closed behind me? My adrenaline must've propelled my body into the room with more strength than I have.
Bracing my hand against the door frame, I give the door a firm yank. It opens with a reluctant yowl. My body tenses against the sound.
Dim light filters in. I step to the side shadows, not wanting to illuminate myself and become an easy target, and listen. No sounds. No change. Good and bad.
With as much stealth as my body can muster, I shuffle up the stairs on my weak, wobbly legs. Roots cover the hand carved walls, and I grab onto them for support, pulling myself forward.
The steps become muddy as I ascend. They pull at my shoes, beckoning me to stay where I am. Stay hidden. Am I making a mistake?
The stairs end in blinding sunlight, too bright for my eyes to adjust to after being in pure darkness for the last few days. I blink, trying to see something, anything. My ears strain to hear the shuffle of feet, the signs of life. Nothing comes to my aid.
Lifting my head just above the lip of grassy ground, I scan the area.
No wonder I couldn't hear a sound. There's no life here. No human life.
I crouch down and shimmy on my stomach out of the hidden hole I fell into, which ultimately saved my life.
Dried blood turns the blades of grass into speckled greens. The earth is soaked with the stench of death. The front of my shirt is soon soaked with someone else's life source. The sticky, red blood makes my body itch, but I keep moving.
There must be a body around here somewhere. We were falling at uncountable speeds. The call to surrender and retreat going out like a call in the night. Where have the warriors taken their foe?
I dare a glance above the grass line.
The field is empty. No bodies. Only the stench of death remains.
Movement catches my eye beyond the tree line. There, a flash of silver. A sign.
I grab the mirror at my waist and signal back.
They're here! Alive! I'm not the only one who made it.
The signal is repeated back. They're coming for me.
My heart leaps in my chest. Joy filling me to the core. How many made it out alive? Did Emry? Caltina? I didn't want to harbor any hope while I waited for death to find my hideout. But now it blossoms. A beautiful rose among the thorny thoughts of doubt. I grab onto it, and let that hope fuel me forward.
Emry steps into the clearing. Her clothes are sweat stained and torn in places. But she looks whole. And she's smiling. How she can do that after what we'd just experienced, I don't know. But her look of relief pulls me to my feet.
A sharp sting bites the back of my neck, through my tangled hair. My body freezes on instinct. It's not the bite of a bug, but the bite of metal, sun warmed and poised to kill.
"If you don't want to lose your head, get your hands away from your weapons." The voice is deep, unhurried, as if killing me will be savored, a process without end.
Emry's face has become a façade of calm. Her hand rests on her blade, strapped at her side. She's too far away to help. Must she watch me fight? And possibly die?
The tree leaves sway in the distant breeze. White, puffy clouds dot the sky, parading by without a care. The grass under my feet, squishy. And my arms, they're tired from not being used. My hands refuse to open the whole way after being palmed around the hilt of my sword for the last two days, ready for an attack. Why didn't I keep my knife in hand?
"Good. Now, turn around."
If I wasn't in such a precarious situation, I would roll my eyes. By turning around, the blade will slice across my neck, right through my artery.
I don't have the advantage of sight. How many enemies stand behind me? Just one? Or many? How many can I fight off before my head is gone? I refuse to go down without a fight. I didn't survive this long, just to die in front of my friend. I must try. Try to protect her, even if it is in vain. One last gift of escape, if she can use the time of my distraction.
"Don't get any fancy ideas of martyrdom." Warmth. There's warmth in his unfamiliar voice. "Just show your face. I don't intend to kill you, unless death is what you wish."
"Then why did you pull your weapon?" My voice is harsh. Hoarse. Days with only salt water in the air to fill my thirst. And scrape my lungs.
A soft huff before the metal is removed.
I spin, yanking my knife from it's sheath, hoping to catch him off guard. But before the tip has loosed the top, I find myself on my back, a curtain of dark hair surrounding my face, as cobalt blue eyes that could freeze over hell itself, stare into mine. 
I feel the pain a moment later. His arm crushing my chest, his body pinning mine to the wet earth below.
"Ouch." I mutter.
A smile carves lines into his cheeks. I realize, in this awkward position, that he's beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful you see in paintings, but the kind of beautiful you see in a predator, as it's stalking it's prey. I refuse to be the prey.
Snapping my head forward, I catch him in the nose. I feel the crunch of bone before his muscles tighten, trapping instead of releasing me.
Blood flows down his face, into mine. I gag, trying not to inhale. If I open my mouth, I will be consuming the hot liquid.
I squirm, fighting his grip. But it's no use. He's much too powerful for me. I can feel it in every inch that he's pressed against me. Rigid, sculpted muscle. Curse the gods for making men.
He's as still as an eagle with a rabbit in it's death clutch. I'm as good as dead now.
The blood stops. Like a faucet being shut.
I dare a glance.
His nose is straight. No sign of the brokenness I'd just created.
A growl builds in his chest, rumbling. "You." It's more feline snarl than human.
I shudder, but hold my ground. If I am to die, I will go down fighting, to my last breath.
I regret hiding in that hole. I regret leaving the battlefield. Surrender, even if it was called by my battalion's leader, should never be mine. This is what makes my blood sing. Competition. The fight for life. Even if I'm on the losing team.
"How could you steal something from me? Something I've saved for nobody but myself?"
My head spins. He's talking in riddles. "Stolen?"
"My blood!" His voice booms across the meadow floor. He leans down, nipping at my ear with his teeth. "Nobody has taken my blood for a thousand years, yet you, you little human thing, who has shielded yourself from me for the last two days, who I've hunted and haven't found until you willed it so, have stolen my blood, drunk it, and bonded yourself with me." He pulls back and his smile is a snarl. A promise of death. "So now, I cannot kill you, lest I kill myself."
He tips his head to the side, like he's listening to someone standing next to him. "I accept the bond."
My mind reals and I think about the door. The door. And the decision to open it. I should've stayed hidden. Hidden and safe from this being.
My vision blurs before tightening. My muscles stop constricting. I feel strength. Whole. Warm. Fire in my veins. I am lethal. I am a predator now too. Not prey. Not prey. Not prey.
I yearn to flick him off me. I push against him and this time, he budges before he clamps back down.
"You are mine." He hisses before he slams his fist into my temple, turning my world to black.

Who's dancing, and why are they tapping those toes?

My feet move of their own accord. The music, pulling them from their stationary place on the foot pedals, into a rhythm that's meant for dancing. My body aches to get up. But I still can't move the way I want to.
I glance down at my leathery hands. Thick veins and age spots mar my once smooth, pale skin. Calluses brush against my fingertips as I fist them. Skin stretching across bone. Rigid and frail at the same time.
My wheelchair has held me hostage for too long.
Taking a deep breath, I will myself away. Away from this earthly chain. I must be free. Free to move as I once moved. Free to sing, dance, lift my spirit into the skies. How many more years must I wait?
My wish is endless. I've wished it a thousand times. Why haven't I learned this small lesson? No matter what we wish for, life is a reality we can't escape. And sometimes, reality stinks.
The picture frames on the wall smile down at me. Smiles from wedding days that were ages ago. Children, now grown and scattered across the globe, living their lives as mine comes to an end.
I can feel it. The end. It's closer each day. I just wish I knew when it would finally rear it's merciful head. I'm tired of suffering. Tired of feeling like a useless bag of bones. That's all I am now. Dispensable in the world's eyes.
If the nurse's rough, rushed routine that makes me feel more like a burden every day doesn't prove that, I don't know what does. It's like she's waiting for me to die so she can write me off. Put a check mark next to my name. Like I'm some task she's finally finished. I'm nothing. Not a real person anymore. My opinions, feelings, needs don't matter. A menace to society that only takes instead of contributes. Guess the seventy years of hard labor counted for nothing. 
My husband abandoned me and this world long before my body took a turn for the worst. In some ways, I'm happy he's not here to see me. Maybe, if he still sees me as the vibrant young lady I was, I can pretend to be that too.
It's been fourteen years. Fourteen years since I've seen him. Fourteen long years since we danced and sang together. Those memories are as old and dusty as I am. But now, they surface in remarkable clarity. Every detail shimmering in my mind. Replaying like I'm living them again. Their beautiful. Breathtaking, as I take in every moment.
I'm whisked into a memory of love. It's our wedding song. The one where my husband got down on one knee, put into words what mirrored my heart, then asked me to marry him. We whispered the words into each others' ears before we left the dance floor that night. The night that everything changed, and I discovered what it meant to truly love, to live. For they are one in the same. 
Life. It's so simple. Yet we try to complicate it. Why? What is wrong with simplicity?
Our song is coming to an end. I imagine his hand guiding me through the steps, not only in dance, but in life. My spirit yearns to be with him again. To see his eyes light up the way they do when he's about to tell a joke. To feel those calluses that match mine. We're a team. And I yearn to pull together again. I pray I will be yoked by his side for eternity.
My lungs give one last pull of air as I close my eyes, and sing the last line of the song. I draw out the words, ending long after the song has finished. Because I want this to be my song. The song I sing when all else is forgotten. Because just as people get old and die, so do songs. But this song will never die. I will keep it alive.
When I open my eyes, it's his face I see. Real. Solid. Welcoming. And that smile. Oh, that smile. My heart lurches in my chest, stumbling to a stop.
Tears run down my cheeks. And why shouldn't they? For just as we cry on earth, the angels weep in heaven. I lift my hands to his face and brush away the tears that have made tracks down his smile lines. He places his hands over mine. Warm. Whole. He's here. He's really here.
"Welcome home." His voice is better than I remember.
I lift myself out of my chair, and for the first time in ten years, I stand on my own and walk with my husband toward the waiting crowd.
I'm home. And earth was just a short journey.

If you could pack up and leave on vacation today, where would you be off to?

I close the computer screen and lean back on the chair. Digesting my discovery has made me excited. I feel like I need to run. Scream. Go somewhere.  Do something. But what?
The vacation package I just found would be nice. If I could pack up and escape today...would I go?
My left hand finds my enlarged belly of it's own accord. Oh yeah, that's right, there's that. And that limits my options. I mean, would I even be able to fit into any clothes right for the weather? Or would I be able to wear a swimsuit? Would I want to? Would it ruin the fun of the vacation if I couldn't?
My soul years to be free. Go somewhere warm. Sunny. Where I can relax. Enjoy alone time. But also be surrounded by people. Where is that magical place where I can forget about all my worries? And how can I get there? Is it safe to fly with only a few weeks left in pregnancy? Would my husband be up for going with me? Would my son? Would I? Is this all just a "grass is greener somewhere else" thing? Or do I really need to get away before I'm tied down to this house for the next year?
I open the computer screen. Glance at the flight prices and make a decision. If I am sacrificing everything in my life to raise another child, then being a little selfish right now, and taking my family on vacation is worth it. We deserve that. I deserve that.
I click on the vacation details and start going through the selection process. When I'm done, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. We leave tomorrow. At noon. What will I tell my hubby? Will he be excited? Or upset? Will he be okay with taking am unexpected week off work? Sure hope this all works out. Too late to change my mind now.
The hours before Ted gets home turn from hours into snails. I wish I could speed up the time.
When he finally steps through the door, I throw my arms around him and welcome him home. He's instantly suspicious. His face wrinkled in concern. 
I guide him over to the computer without a word and show him what I've done.
We're going to visit some of our favorite friends in Hawaii!

Describe your memories of a piece of furniture from your childhood home

The wooden children's chair is set on top of a massive cardboard box. It's supposed to be hidden. Out of reach from my little hands. That fact alone makes me want to see it more than any other treasure hidden in the basement. How it got on top of the box, in the open, is beyond me. I must take advantage of this opportunity. Who knows when it will present itself again?
I find a smaller box and push it up against the big one. It's sturdy enough to hold my weight as I climb, my body now surging with excitement that I might get to see the chair up close.
The box holds and before I know it, the chair is sitting within my grasp. 
The polished wood is carved in an ornate style that I can't identify. It's old. I know that. And the wood is worn, chipped in some places. The back support looks brittle, like it could disintegrate under my touch. I want to run my hands across the surface. To feel what my ancestor's hands felt. To experience what they've experienced. But in the back of my head, I hear my mom's voice, telling me to never touch it, because it could break. And I don't want it to break. Not only because it would make my mom upset, and I don't like to upset her, but because I don't want to ruin something so priceless.
The chair crossed the plains with my ancestors. With how old it looks, it might've even crossed the ocean. It is one of the only things my mom was given from her family that has been in her family for generations. And it calls to me. Why do relics bring such mystery and charm? What is it about them that beckons? Is it the stories they could tell? Or because they are one of a kind? Or is it because they hold value, more than any riches could buy?
I hear footsteps coming down the front stairs and shuffle away from the chair. My admiration time is up. I need to hide, or get back upstairs without being caught snooping through my parents' old stuff.
I make it around to the back stairs and out of sight just in time. My mom is calling for me. I act like I don't hear and climb the stairs as quietly as possible.
That was fun. Thrilling. I hope she doesn't notice the chair out in the open. Or the box I moved.
My mind hums with happiness. When will I get to do that again?

Complete this thought: "Today I Hope..."

The clock on the wall reads 10:37 pm.
I lay there, staring at the red letters, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I've been looking at those numbers count up for the last hour. Why can't I sleep? My body is beyond exhausted. Growing a baby, keeping up with a three year old, and staying up with the chores has kept me busier than my last full time job. But my mind is going a thousand miles and hour. Did I do a good job at teaching Hesston something new today? Did I let him help me clean up enough? Did I let him finish his projects? Did I feed him healthy enough? Did I let him play outside for too long? Did I fulfill my duties as a wife and mother? Did I show Ted how much I love and appreciate him? Did I give him enough love? Do I show him enough support? Does he know how much I need and love him?
The questions are endless. They go in a circle, over and over. Then the scary ones come in. Like, what would I do if someone broke into the house? How would I escape? How would I keep Hesston quiet? How would I defend my family? These types of questions make me grumpy, because these are questions I shouldn't have to answer. Why can't there just be good people everywhere? Then I wouldn't have to worry about things like this and have a plan to defend my family.
The clock now reads 10:49 pm.
I've just wasted another twelve minutes of sleep. I tuck my pillow under the left side of my enlarged belly and try to find some semblence of comfort. I give up after a few tries, realizing comfort is overrated.
Burning acid rises up from my stomach into my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it keeps coming up. I keep thinking this baby must have some awesome hair growth, either that or the old wise tell is just something to keep the mind off the pain. My mom says it's my diet. Maybe I really am eating too much. Or not healthy enough. I did eat some of Hesston's Easter candy today. But how could I say no when he gave me a puppy dog look and was sharing so well?
A little grunt sounds from the other bedroom. Then a rustle of sheets.
"Daddy Lion?" A pause. "Momma?" Hesston's sleepy voice is followed by the sound of his feet hitting the floor. Then rapid footsteps as he flings his door open. "Daddy Lion? Momma?" His summoning has woken up Ted, who rolls over and lifts his tired body out of bed. I can hear his body groaning as he stands up and gently directs Hesston back to his room.
A feel a lump of guilt in my chest. Shouldn't I be the one going and putting him back to bed? After all, I don't have to go to work tomorrow. But I guess in a way I do, even if it is stay home and keep things together on the home front. A little relief eases the guilt. But then I feel bad about having relief that Ted comforted Hesston instead of me. What is wrong with me?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Should I wait up until Ted comes back to bed? Should I show him support by staying awake until he can get back to sleep? Or should I just try to get some sleep while I can? Ha ha...if I can.
I try to round up my crazy thoughts. Taking each and every one of them and putting them in an imaginary file folder that I will lock up tonight, and reopen in the morning. It takes another ten minutes to sort through all the thoughts and file them away. But soon, my mind is clear, and the file folder is stowed in the back of my mind. The thoughts threaten to escape, but I keep the lock firmly closed. Instead, I decide to think of one thing. Something that will keep my mind off everything else. A heart comes to mind. Love. I will focus on love. Today I hope that I showed my boys how much I love them.

If you could go back in time exactly 10 years and give yourself some advice, what would you tell yourself?

The truck door slams as I pull it closed behind me. The lifted, white Ford diesel pickup was harder to get into than I thought, especially with my tight jeans. I wonder if I ripped a hole in them from the climb. I quickly check while my date rushes around to the driver's side. Nothing like making a first impression with a huge hole. Thankfully, the seams are still stitched together. Barely. Guess my social life isn't the only thing hanging by a thread.
Finding something suitable to wear was hard. I have to look just right, and it's been a while since I actually cared how I look. Dressed to impress, but not overly so. Not casual, but casual enough to be able to be prepared for anything the date could include. It's like a dance, trying to guess the move of your partner before you know what it will be.
Tonight is another one of those for me, another first date. Even though I'm only twenty years old, I've had so many first dates, I've lost track. I really wish they were over. I am ready to be done dating. My soul is ready to settle down with someone I love and who loves me in return.
A surge of anticipation and adrenaline races through my system. What if he doesn't like me? What if I do something stupid? Do something wrong? How many more of these dates can I take? I shove down my worries and paste on a smile. 
My date, Steve, jumps into the cab. He makes it look effortless. Must be because he's got about ten inches of extra height than me.
As he shifts the truck into drive, I take a moment to check him out, because come on, let's be honest, physical attraction is a big part of dating.
He's cute, in a non-assuming type of way. Athletic build. Broad shoulders. A total cowboy, complete with Wranglers and a plaid shirt.
I've dated a cowboy before. I didn't think I would do it again, especially since a true cowboy only has one thing on his mind: When's the next rodeo. Guess I will have to find out if he's a cowboy or farm boy. The two can sometimes be hard to discern from each other at first, but there is a huge difference.
His side profile is like a portrait. I want to paint it, capture how perfect it is, even though I'm not an artist. A pang of insecurity pops in my belly. My side profile is something I don't like about myself. I concentrate on keeping my gaze toward him.
He turns to look at me as he asks me where I want to go for dinner.
I can't help but add his gentlemanly manners to his good qualities. The fact that he opened the truck door for me, and how he's asking me where I'd like to eat instead of just deciding for me. I like a man who has respect and consideration for those he's around.
I ask him what he feels like, hoping that he will give me some sort of hint. I hate making the date decisions all on my own. If I am to end up in a relationship with this guy, I want it to be a joint thing, not one sided, where he or I make all the decisions. Been there. Done that. Not going back.
He takes a few moments to think before he suggests a great pizza place in town. I love the idea, and quickly agree. 
As we get into the restaurant and take our seats, I make sure to sit up straight.
My whole list of things to make sure I do on a date pops into my mind. A checklist, if you will. My date doesn't have to be perfect, but I do.
Sit up straight until conversation begins. Then lean in and engage not only with words, but with eyes, facial and body expressions. After all, body language makes up for a lot more than words.
Listen. Don't dominate the conversation. If anything, ask most the questions and then pay attention. The details are key. And stories. You can learn a lot about a person with the stories they tell.
Be polite. Thank them for their good manners. Everyone can use a little appreciation now and then, especially if they deserve it.
The list goes on and on. I won't bore you by continuing. But it's perfection. Truly. I've gotten it down to a science. Most of my first dates turn into planning second dates before the night is over. It's not something I'm cocky about, it's just that I've been here so many times, I've got it down.
As I sink into my pillows later that night, I review my evening. My heart gives a little leap in my chest, because to be honest, I had a really good night. Not only did the conversation go well, I feel a great connection with Steve. And connection is everything. If you can't connect, then how are you supposed to form a relationship?
I run my fingers over the top of my comforter, wondering how my life will go. Will I be looking back in ten years, thinking my problems were small and insignificant? Will I be regretting my choices? Will I make the right ones? Marriage is such a huge part of my future. And I want my future to be filled with happiness and success. So the decision of whom I will marry is kind of a big deal. In order to find my Mr. Right, I need to be Mrs. Right. I hope that day comes sooner than later.
************
Ten years later...
Life has turned out much better than expected. Not thanks to me, but to God and how He guided and directed my life. Not only did my Mr. Right find me, he is more than I could've ever imagined. The funny thing is, once I stopped looking for him, he found me. That's my first piece of advice. Stop looking for Mr. Right. You will find each other when the time is right. And no, my Mr. Right is not my date in this story. But Steve was a very nice young man who I am sure has made some special lady very happy in life.
Another thing I wish I could go back and tell myself is: to be myself. I tried so hard to be perfect and make everyone else happy. By trying so hard to please others, I lost myself in the mix. Forgot who I was. It wasn't until I began to just be myself that I found out who I was and what I wanted out of life, and in someone else (to love me for me, not the perfect person I was trying to be).
Lastly, I would say to hold your head high. This was an extremely rough time for me. I had just gotten out of an abusive engagement and I was trying to figure out what a healthy relationship was again. I had low self esteem, and thought that if I wasn't perfect in every way, then I wasn't worth even considering as a human being. But I realize now that no matter how beaten down you are, that you're still important. Still loved. Still have a purpose in life. Don't give up. Hold on. Life does get better.

Think about a time you were recently in public. Describe what you were doing from the point of view of a stranger observing you.

The door chime alerts me that someone has entered the bakery. I dust the flour off my hands and walk to the counter.
A little boy's voice fills the air. He's talking so fast I can barely understand him. He stands at the display shelf, staring at our selection of doughnuts. He's clearly excited about the prospect of having one by the high tone of his voice.
Pulling on the suffocating disposable gloves I'm required to wear before I handle food takes me a moment to collect myself before I greet the customers.
"How many would you like today?" I ask the lady, I presume is the little boy's mom, standing next to him.
She looks a little flustered, but wears a smile. Her eyes dart around the store, then land on the doughnuts her son is pointing at.
"Umm...we've never been here before." Not exactly the answer I was looking for. "But, umm, can we get a chocolate one?"
I glance down at the little boy. He's pointing at the chocolate glazed doughnuts. I grab one and place it on a tray.
"Anything else?" I scrutinize the mom as she looks over the rest of the doughnuts.
Her hair is in a messy pony tail, that she somehow pulls off with a trendy shirt and sweater. Her skinny jeans are tucked into cowgirl boots. She must be from out of town. Not many people wear boots like that around here. As my eyes scan back up to her face, I notice she's hiding a baby bump under her flowy shirt. I wonder how many weeks along she is. Is that what drove her into our doughnut store around lunchtime? A pregnancy craving?
My stomach twists at the thought of being pregnant. Even though I'm in college, working to pay my way, and getting good grades, having a baby would crush all my future plans. As soon as I'm done with this small town, I'm headed to the city to get a real job. Of course, making doughnuts all day isn't exactly rocket science, and the owners are more than fair with wages and hours, I do aspire to do more with my life. Being a mom can come later. Much later.
I look the woman over again. I wonder how old she is. If she planned her life to turn out the way it has. Did she always dream of being a mom? I can tell by the way she talks to her son that she loves him. Her soft replies to his demanding questions are better than I can say of most moms, mine included. Did she learn to be kind from her mom? If so, I have no chance at being a good mom. Better leave that one to someone else.
"I'll just get a chocolate one too." She interrupts my thoughts. It takes me a moment to remember that she's talking about the doughnuts.
I place the second doughnut next to the first and take it over to the register. Best get this order finished before I botch it.
The little boy is standing at the counter, his blue eyes full of anticipation. You can practically feel it rolling off him. His blond hair is gelled in a hip style, and his clothes are a cool enough to make most grown men jealous. Clearly his mom has taste.
He must take after his dad, because his mom has brown hair, and a tan complexion. But their blues eyes do match. That must be what she passed on to him, a genetic trait that connects them as each other's.
The mom grabs a chocolate milk from the fridge and sets it on the counter. Her cell phone and wallet follow. I assume she is ready to pay.
"Will that be it?"
"Yes, thank you." 
I put the order into the register, trying not to pay too much attention to the huge diamond ring on her finger. She must be married, to a generous man. The way her eyes sparkle and constant smile lights up her face, she must be happy in her marriage too. That kind of happiness you can't fake.
I wonder if I will end up as lucky as this woman, with an adorable boy to show for it. Is that what I want?
I think back over my life. Being raised by a single mom, barely able to make ends meet, let alone go out for over priced doughnuts during the middle of the day, I never imagined myself getting tied down to someone for the rest of my life. Couldn't imagine myself making that commitment. But maybe, just maybe it is worth it.
I wish I could ask her about her life. Ask her about what makes her so happy. Is it her son? Is it her husband? What makes the light in her eyes fill the store with warmth? She has the answers. I know she does. If only I could ask.