The Old Bakery

The old, weathered, faded-white, wooden walls of the bakery creaked slightly as the sweet, gentle summer breeze blows softly by. The breeze moves the girl's thick, curly brown hair as she twists the small, always pristine glass doorknob, that's connected to the white wood, rippled glass door by tarnished metal. She pushed open the door as a small, ancient-looking, slightly rusted bell emitted a sharp, loud "ting!" when the top of the faded door hit it, alerting the kind, elderly baker of the girl's donut-hungering presence. As she fully stepped into the quaint room, with a display case that had pristine metal frames and sparkling glass, every shelf filled end-to-end with delicious, golden-brown pastries, from sprinkled, frosted, or glazed donuts to small, fluffy, apple pies, the girl was immediately overwhelmed with the smells of the yeast activating in glass dishes, the flour on the counters, and the rising bread, when she sees it. The perfect donut. It was a beautiful, perfectly cooked, chocolate donut with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles, and looked like the best thing that was ever made. She ordered it excitedly and paid with a crisp, clean, green $5 bill. The kind baker wrapped up the donut and handed the brown paper bag to the girl, who thanked the man. The gentle baker went back to kneading a fresh batch of dough for the next batch of delicious pastries, as the girl opened the bag and pulled the donut out and started eating it gleefully. The girl finished it quickly and hungered for more, but decided that there wasn't another perfect donut there and opened the intricately designed wooden door for what would unknowingly be the last time the girl did that, walked through as the bell dings again, and strode off down the sidewalk, each step coursing with newfound energy through her veins, grateful for that final donut.