The pain aux raisins may have sparked the least amount of joy, but it was the cheapest option, so I bargained away my tastebuds for my bank account. On my first bite, I safely avoided the plump raisins. But, alas, this lasted only so long, because on my next bite I bit into five ripe, pungent, squishy, slimy, dreadful raisins. As I took my third bite, I felt bitter about not buying the pain au chocolat, and I came to the important conclusion that saving fifty cents was not worth it. At all. By the fourth bite, I indulged in the ultimate French sin: picking out the raisins and tossing them onto the snowy street. I used the lamppost’s yellowish light to arrange twenty of the dreaded raisins into a giant frowning face. The snow had stopped and the wind was spare, so I was confident that my sad face would stay put until the morning.
          As I walked, I finished what was left of my mangled pastry and wiped my sticky fingers on my ruby-red wool coat. My hands were numb from the cold, but my stomach felt full. I cursed out the winter season and felt utterly annoyed by my now-purple fingertips. The French sin I had committed suddenly felt exhilarating. Now the snow could suffer the humiliation of commingling with the nasty shriveled fruit. After all, the months of frigid weather had put a damper on my life.
          I smirked at my work and I felt a rush of excitement. It felt good to commit a crime again. Alas, I was still in utter pain, but the thought of the snow being subjected to my raisiny punishment warmed my frozen body. I tossed the evidence from the white pastry bag and walked casually away from the crime scene.
          The next day, a windy morning, I awoke to an agitated knock on the door. I smoothed my greasy hair and stumbled out of bed. In one slow motion, I opened the door. I saw nothing at first, but when I glanced down, a face made out of raisins was smiling up at me from my purple doormat.