Fritter

He's looking around the room. Empty chairs, no open table. He needs one because in each hand is a plate with a donut on it. One for himself and another for his daughter, who's peeking over the countertop behind them. You're welcome to sit here, I say. He accepts and hoists his daughter onto an empty seat next to me. She's digs into an apple fritter, first pulling it apart into chunks and then bits. She eats like a bird, he says. Not that she eats little, but that she eats in small pieces, or one seed at a time. My father and I shared similar outings, except in place of the apple fritter he had a buttermilk donut on account of his bad heart. Most often we kept our stops secrets between us. I wonder if this father and daughter are doing the same. The apple fritter nearly gone, she pushes her plate to her dad and wipes her fingers clean with a napkin dipped in water. It's great to be out having a donut with your dad, isn't it? Yes, she says, and smiles. She jumps down from the chair ready for their next stop: shopping for scooters.