Nobody was quite sure where she had come from, one of those easily overlooked Midwest states, something with an I – Iowa, Indiana, something like that; a place you were from not somewhere you were going to. I’m sure she had a name, something expected, safe, well Midwestern – but we all just called her Cinnamon Girl.
It’s probably worth noting that she wasn’t the sweet cinnamon sugar mix you load up your French toast with, no more like a spicy bite of chili that makes you ask, “whoa is there cinnamon in that?”
Well it came to pass that we all got to know her pretty well waiting in the morning cruffin line, as well as you can know a person that is. If you only looked once you might only see a ginger with bad knees and a sailor’s tongue. You’d miss all the fun though – the predilection for morning mimosas, and those special gummies and who could forget the sex club stories, yeah you wouldn’t really know our Cinnamon Girl.
It would be easy enough to stop there, cause after all who doesn’t love a bit of a sordid story with their morning pastry, and it isn’t always easy to see past the fun if you will. Of course, you’d miss the big heart, the real hugs and that little bit of sweet she holds close for those she really loves. No, you would miss all things that make her our special Cinnamon Girl.
But if you should find yourself stuck in the rain with her damp ginger curls, rain soaked jacket, and a quart of pina-coladas already history… well you might have to listen to something about a cinnamon bun… but you should know she’s still our Cinnamon Girl.