I mangled the macaroons.
They were really expensive, too. I was going to bring them in to work to share, these beautiful little gems, but they are mangled beyond reproach.
I was so upset that I ate the croissant I bought for Kelly.
The ladies behind the counter asked me if I wanted a box. I said a bag was fine. "We're not fancy people," I said.
They laughed. "Sometimes that's better," one of them answered in a delicate French flavor.
"It's more fun, at least," I said, and tossed the treats in my bag.
Last Christmas, I bought my friend a gift. To quell the concern of the vendor after refusing a bag in which I could carry the box containing the gift, I quipped, "mangled is my signature."
I am so upset. They were so pretty. Now, they're not.
Sitting on the train in my vintage winter coat, my chin barely able to escape the clutches of my scarf, I open the bag of mangled macaroons and chew on a mangled vanilla. I remember a winter moment from when I was six or so. I stuffed a candy cane in my bag to give to my very pretty teacher. It broke, and then it crumbled. By the time I reached the classroom, it had ground into a powder. Not even the cellophane could hold its shape.
I cried. I was so disappointed. But, I think I gave it to her, anyway.
Maybe I can have a neighbor over for mangled macaroons and tea.