Five below outside, but it was toasty warm inside, partly because Dotty burned the pancakes. Admittedly it was largely my fault. I was too eager to start some Sunday morning under the Christmas tree sex. Instead of a slow and seductive fuck we got smoke, the incessant blaring bleat of the smoke alarm, and Dotty’s cry of “Fuck, fuck, fuck, see what you made me do?” I punched in the code to turn off the alarm while Dotty scraped the charred flapjacks into the sink. “I’ll just run out and get some donuts,” I told Dotty, and I pulled on some jogging pants, boots, and a jacket, and set off. I returned about twenty minutes later with a dozen chocolate frosted, Dotty’s favorite. The windows and doors were all open, better to clear the smoke. I handed Dotty the box of donuts and disrobed. “Now where were we?” I asked, no doubt a lascivious smile upon my lips. Just then a pair of burly firemen charged through the open front door. “Everything all right?” one of them asked. “Uh, I think so,” Dotty replied. “You fellows want a donut?”