I know I haven't given you a Dunkin' Donuts update in a while, but I decided a week or two ago that I had to stop going. I was in love with the Dunkin' Donuts girl, and it was a love that could not be.

Each morning I would rush out of my apartment and run like Carl Lewis to the Dunkin' Donuts across the street from my office. I would get through the coffee line, coffee in hand, and make my way to the bagel line. I'd get through the bagel line with my coffee and my de rigeur egg 'n' cheese on an everything bagel, and then make my way to the cashier line.

And there she would be, a vision in a brown Dunkin' Donuts visor and polo -- a combination that makes the employees appear unsure as to whether they want to be croupiers in Vegas or golf caddies. In fact, it made most of the employees look sickly for whatever reason.

But not her.

God, she was beautiful. She had these rounded Slavic features and these pale, blue eyes the color of artificial blueberry, which were only accentuated by the fact that she didn't have eyebrows. She had an ample bosom that I would've loved to rest my head on. And she had her hair pulled back tight tight tightly into a ponytail, which proudly showed off her large clumps of missing hair.

Every day I'd hand her four crisp singles to pay for my $3.23 breakfast, just so I could hear her breathily say in her goddess' accent, "OK, ahnd yoor chaynge ees, uhhhh, seexty-fohr cents."

"No, no, my love," I'd say as I took hold of her outstretched hand, looked deeply into those eyes, and smiled devilishly. "That should be seventy-seven cents."

"Oh, yes. Yoo ahr cohrrect," she'd say, looking down coquettishly as she, too, smiled, showing her teeth the color of gold.

I would then leave, counting the milliseconds until the next morning. Every day was like that.

The rest of the day would be painful. Afternoons and evenings were there only to be endured. Weekends were spent screaming at the clock. Morning dressing and grooming rituals were done as quickly as possible. And the days she had off were hardly days worth living.

Things were spiraling out of control. I couldn't work, because all I could do was think of her. I couldn't sleep, because she wasn't next to me. I couldn't eat, because anything that didn't come in a house shaped box or at least have one apostrophe in its name suddenly lost its appeal.

Things were getting ugly, so I broke off the affair and started going to the independant coffee joint near my apartment. And, oh, life was worth living again. The staff was pleasantly surly and condescending, as any good coffee shop staff should be. The coffee was strong enough to keep you awake and make your urine smell bad, as any good coffee should do. The everything bagels had enough onion on them to keep coworkers at bay for hours, as any good everything bagel should do as well.

In what way, I asked myself, could my morning routine get any better?

But this morning...oh, this morning!...disaster struck again.

Love. Love, love, love. And I know this one's gonna kill me.

She was...she is, I guess...just beyond words.

She was waiting in line this morning at the coffee shop when I walked in. I stopped dead in my tracks, one foot up in the air, and my jaw down around my navel.

Lulu.

That's her name: Lulu. At least, I think that's her name. It's gotta be her name. I'd seen her once before maybe two, three weeks ago, at the local burrito joint, and the first thing that popped into my mind that day were those two, sugary syllables. Lulu.

When I saw her that time, she was in top form. She was walking back up to the counter in her shoulder to ankle faux leopard pelt coat, holding a tray overloaded with Mexican food. She had nachos, an enchilada looking thing, and a burrito already opened and mortally wounded. My Lulu must've needed all that food to maintain her figure.

"Ex-CUSE me," she said to the counter guy as she elbowed three waifish, hippie looking kids out of the way. She had this glorious Albany accent, which is more or less a low-rent Bronx accent. "What does this look like to you? It's rice. Rice!" She was jabbing threateningly at the burrito carcass with the three-inch fake red fingernail on her index finger, which barely held up under the weight of the giant gold ring she wore.

Oh, she had such rage in her eyes, my Lulu did, and the thick, tarry eyeliner she wore highlighted that rage like an exclamation point. "My gawd! What ah you, deef? I said no rice! I am awn a vehry special diet that my dahctuh put me awn. And I am NAWT allowed to have rice!" Her giant dyed blonde bouffant hairdo bobbed with each consonant.

"Ma'am, that's cheese," said the disinterested burrito maker.

"Oh. OK. Sawrry." She turned around and went back to her bench.

There's no way to say this without sounding crude: I was sprung like a cartoon sofa. And knowing my luck, I was sure I'd never see her again.

I was miraculously, beautifully wrong.

As I walked down the stairs into the coffee joint this morning, I heard that voice singing like a crow. "Ex-CUSE me! Is there alcawhawl in that cawfee? It tastes like theyhres alcawhawl in this cawfee and I am NAWT allowed to have alcawhawl. Dahctah's ohrdahs."

I didn't even wait to hear the response. I turned and ran and ran and ran and ran. I got to the office and poured a bottle of water over my head. I slammed my head in the drawer a few times, all in an effort to get her out of my head.

"Oh, love," I thought. "Why do you have to do this to me?"

It didn't work.

Now here I am. In love. Unable to think, unable to do. In love.

Now what do I do?