Boston Cream

It could have been a Boston cream, puffy white, the inside sweet vanilla pudding, but instead it was a jelly donut, glazed with sugar, filled with the sort of fluorescent red goo that could only be created in a ­food-science lab. Caroline didn’t even realize she’d stepped on the thing. She was dragging a suitcase, a backpack was thumping on her back, and her eyes were on the track numbers blinking in green over the platform doors. The voice over the loudspeaker was blaring boarding instructions, and Caroline dashed to her train, legs scissoring, suitcase wheels spinning along. Her shoe must have hit the jelly donut from the perfect angle, because when it burst, the jelly squirted straight up, directly hitting the crotch of her light jeans. She ran along the platform, feet pounding, oblivious, and by the time she hoisted her bag onto the overhead rack she had managed to coat her entire inseam with the sticky fuchsia slime, something she only noticed as she flopped down into her leather seat.

“Oh my God, what on earth?” Caroline muttered, her glasses fogging in the warmth of the train. She unzipped her backpack and rummaged for a tissue. She had a computer, a charger, two lip balms, a book, a pouch full of pens, and a can of almonds. No tissues. “Does anyone have a Kleenex or a napkin?” she called out to the surrounding seats. The woman sitting across the aisle glanced up, made a horrified face, and shook her head before burying her nose back in her phone. Lovely. Caroline pulled a receipt from her wallet and started trying to wipe at the mess.

“Here.” A hand appeared with a sheaf of paper napkins.

“Thank you so much.” Caroline sighed, grabbing the napkins and wiping the jelly from her crotch. “This is such a disaster. I might need to change. Do you know which train car has the bathroom?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, there aren’t bathrooms on the commuter rail. None at the station either.”