Churropocalypse

This, my friends, is a churro.

I know the feeling well, this feeling that I was feeling just a few nights ago. We all know it. It sneaks up without warning right after we take our first steps onto the subway platform late at night. We saunter toward our desired waiting location and realize that no trains will arrive to take us home for a possible 15 minutes. That's when it hits us.

Churro fever.

I found myself in such a situation the other night. It was 10pm and I was hungry. That's when the succulent scent of cinnamon and sugar wafted toward me. I looked to my side and saw her. 

A beacon of hope.
An angel in a beanie.
A goddess of the fryer.

The churro lady.

 My prayers had been answered. In my wallet I possessed the key to euphoria: a $1 bill. I requested nobly, with honor and poise, " yo, can I get two?"

My request was granted. Placed in my hand were a pair of churros, golden brown and twinkling with granulation. Protectively wrapping them was the calling card of the art, a rustling paper lunch bag darkened in the places where the churros were generous enough to offer their grease. With no lack of hesitation I lifted one of these sweet prizes to my mouth and bit. The result was bliss. It was crunchy but soft. Sweet and rich. Messy and room-temperature. They were mine and mine only ... or so I thought.

I heard a rustling behind me. I turned and saw another man experiencing the same euphoria with a pair of churros in his hand. I was not alone. This prize was not one for me to enjoy in exclusivity. More rustling. I looked to my left. Yet another platform denizen with churros. The prize had become commonplace, my euphoria no longer special. I was one in a group.

I looked into a downtown-bound train that had been sitting at the platform for a few minutes. Within its doors I saw more of them. One, two, five, eight passengers all with churros. I had no idea of the epidemic I had succumbed to. I analyzed the hands of all those around me. There were churros everywhere. In every direction. Churro. Churro. Churro! A man approached munching the first churro in his bag of a half dozen. I paled and sank into the bench behind me, no longer concerned of the bed bugs it potentially hosted. This was no ordinary snacking phenomenon.

This was the churropocalypse.