The scent of the ink still wet on the divorce

The scent of the ink still wet on the divorce papers was cause for reflection; it smelled like, her...you know who...the one you can't stop thinking about...like, lilacs in summer.

Like purple rain, like sparklers in a car wash, like the lapidary dance we did around each other in the laundromat dryer we call our life. Divorce papers, hmm. We both knew

that our marriage had been on boil wash for too long and was now misshapen, matted & covered in fluff. But divorce papers? Surely there was a solution which could remove the stains

from these spaghetti stains, I called up the laundromat and asked them about dry cleaning my divorce papers. They told me to come in on Tuesday. I showed up but they were closed.

Why did I leave my divorce papers in my pants? To end up in the Laundromat! Gee, I coulda thought this through better. I returned on Wednesday and retrieved the papers..

The warm, soapy water had disintegrated the essential forms, like I'd washed a tissue in my pocket. White fibres were scattered throughout the load of laundry. Well, my ex-wife was

wonder if she really was my ex now. Those documents were the only thing other than everything else that proved we were divorced. If I couldn't prove we were divorced, my election

, but he was at a retreat for married men who loved banging their crotches into dwarfs and fairies wearing boots; so, I said, “No, we’re just separated,” and went back to sleep.

I slept deeply. I must have had an active sleepwalking session: When I awoke it was ME in bed being cuddled and cooed at by 3 dwarfs and 4 fairies. Oh, I mustn’t forget the sheep.