Coffee and a Sticky Bun

Samantha McKenna

“Coffee and a sticky bun,” she spat the words, her disbelief slicing through the room like a knife.

“Yes, but I got a promotion at work,” I lied, clinging to that flimsy excuse to mask the creeping shame tightening around my throat.

As Martha reached for her dreaded bible of sinful calories, I scanned the room. Some faces mirrored sympathy, tinged with guilt, fellow culprits who had also gained weight this week. We wore our shame like an extra layer, silently bonded in defeat.

Others, the victorious few who had managed to lose weight, respectfully averted their eyes, suddenly fascinated by the worn carpet beneath their feet.

And then, there was Audrey.

Stick-thin, immaculate Audrey, who had no business being here. Yet she turned up every week, smugly declaring she’d had no gain that she was still at her perfect target weight. Some weeks, the insufferable woman even lost another pound, beaming as she announced it meant she could enjoy a little treat. A reward. A prize for being… well, perfect.

People like Audrey shouldn’t be allowed in weight-loss groups. Her presence wasn’t about support, it was about superiority.

Martha, meanwhile, was flipping through her gospel of guilt, the Points Bible, and I was scrambling, mentally rifling through pastry options. I couldn’t possibly confess to the Belgian Bun in all its glorious, syrupy sin. Maybe the plain doughnut ring would sound less damning. No filling, a hole in the centre, surely it counted for less, right?

She peered over her glasses like a headmistress ready to announce my punishment.

“So… a large latte?” she asked, drawing out the words.

Panic sparked. The latte? The bloody latte? It’s just coffee! Why is she asking about the latte?

Martha began to pace, her voice rising theatrically as she delivered the blow to the assembled room.

“A large latte… seven points.”

Crap. I was sinking fast. You couldn’t even have coffee without committing a crime in this place?

“And the bun?” she prompted, as though aiming the final shot.

I was in the firing line now. My cheeks burned. I could barely get the words out.

“A doughnut ring?” I offered, meekly.

A few gasps rippled through the room.

“Glazed?” she asked, her tone sharpened with suspicion.

“Um… yes, I think so. Well, yes, I remember now it was. That’s why it was sticky.”

Louder gasps this time.

She studied me a moment, then resumed flipping through the pages.

Audrey, of course, had her own bible, already flicking through it with the self-righteous speed of a quiz show contestant desperate to buzz in.

“Eleven points,” she chirped, like a smug teacher’s pet with all the answers.

“Eleven points,” Martha echoed, letting the number hang in the air like a judge passing the death sentence.

“That’s 18 points,” she declared to the group. “On coffee and a sticky bun!”

I felt my face flame as the room pressed in on me, air thick and tight. I tried not to breathe too deeply, afraid I’d cry if I made a sound.

“Well girls,” Martha said, her voice softening into mock kindness, “there’s a lesson here for all of us. And thank you, Katie, for being brave enough to share your slip-up with the group.”

Brave? Is that what this was?

It was over. My public shaming had passed, and now the spotlight shifted to the next poor soul.

But I didn’t feel brave. I felt hollow. Small. Ashamed.

I thought about the Terry’s Chocolate Orange sitting untouched in the fridge at home.

Ah well, I sighed. Tomorrow is another day, another chance to start again.

Samantha McKenna is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am, and on Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar. Aspiring and fun writers welcome.