"Oh my," Ted gripped his lunch bag. Crosswalks

"Oh my," Ted gripped his lunch bag. Crosswalks were tense for him. He counted each step and tapped his knee three times for good luck. He also alphabetized the cars until

he got to the letter G, which terrified him. As a child, he was traumatized by the Sesame Street episode sponsored by that letter, so Ted avoided it at all costs. Even his wife

had to change her name from "Gertrude" to "Zelda" just to keep him as far away from the letter G as possible. Ted reckoned it was a fair compromise in marriage on his wife's part.

They stood at the altar, eyes locked desperately at their future, he already knew it was cracking at the edges. How many weeks or months before it unraveled like last time?

Last time, when the church choir director and custodian met here, there were lillies. Was it Easter or a funeral? I just remember the overly sweet stench. Now, no flowers, just

a layer of dust and the vague lingering odor of incense and charcoal from a long-discarded thurible and boat. The frankincense and myrrh of a forgotten Christmas celebration. I'd

forgotten. Funny how smells can create memories both true and fiction. I still remember my ex-husband when ever I pass a carnival and smell freshly fried

flesh. The fact that he died in a deep fryer may have something to do with that. If they'd just put a cover on that frying vat, maybe I wouldn't be here at the

made him smile. I think he's just embarrassed by his missing teeth, when he should really be worried about his huge ears and bad nose-picking habit.