Crouton.doc







 
 
 



#!!$
  "!   


The crouton appeared on Ted’s white ottoman, perfectly centered on the quarter-sized leather button that formed the nexus of stitching that held it together. The ottoman was one of four pieces of furniture in the room, a one-bedroom place right above the bagel shop on Main Street, Breckenridge. It was purchased for him by his mother, along with the matching recliner, just after his graduation from the university in Boulder nearly a decade ago. “I think you’re crazy to have all white in a mountain town,” she’d told him. But she wrote the check all the same. “Price they charge for furniture these days, it’s criminal. Are you sure it’s that much?” A small glass-and-aluminum end table sat next to the chair, and a similar piece – slightly larger with one white-cushioned chair, served as his dining table. The 56-inch Sony plasma hung on the wall, along with three framed exhibit prints from the Denver Art Museum. Ted noticed the crouton immediately upon entering his apartment. Everything else was exactly as he’d left it that morning before going to his office — a small graphic arts firm within walking distance of his home. A man with, say, several children could come home and not notice an errant crouton for weeks. But for Ted, it was the same as if he’d come home and found the place ransacked, searched by thugs, infiltrated by zombies. He froze. It was easy enough to see that whoever had left the crouton was no longer present. The door to his bedroom was open, and there was no place to hide.

Page 2 Except the closet. Slowly, he removed his sno-mocs and jacket. The shoes went on one of three shelves dedicated to just that purpose; the jacket – a white Marmot – went on its peg. He moved quickly to the bedroom closet and flung the door open. Greeted only by his typical winter wardrobe of white turtlenecks and dark cords, he gave a quick peek under the single bed, then went into the other room to contemplate the crouton. Ted was not a crouton eater. He rarely ate salads, for starters, since the bag always went brown before he got around to making a second bowl. Even then, purchasing an entire box of croutons to go with his infrequent salads would have represented something of an extravagance. A typical box of Pepperidge Farms croutons probably held several dozen croutons, and figuring only half a dozen or so, max, would go on a salad every few months, the box would go stale long before he could finish it. Store-bought croutons were also, he suspected, pretty high in sodium. Ted had mild hypertension, and he was cautious about his salt intake. A box of croutons was the kind of thing that would sit in his cabinet for a very long time, plaguing him with a silent insistence that he come up with some way to use it. Another example was a box of Rice-a-Roni, pilaf flavor, he’d bought on a whim. After noting that the sodium content per serving was over 1,000 milligrams, the box sat accusingly on his shelf for an entire ski season before he finally donated it during a Christmas food drive. Standing about three feet from the crouton-inhabited ottoman thinking these many thoughts about croutons, Ted felt the old pre-Paxil ball of dread welling up in his chest. It had been a good two years since he’d felt it – about the time that had elapsed since his doctor had prescribed the little pills that took the anxiety away and flattened him into a twodimensional being.

Page 3 It was definitely a packaged crouton, not a restaurant-made product. It was nearly perfectly square, with tiny flecks of what was probably identified on the package as “seasoning.” It might be “Italian” style, he thought, or “garlic-herb” or even “Caesar.” There were no crumbs or other debris around the crouton, negating the notion that it could, somehow, have been tossed in an open window or – even more unlikely – shot out of an air vent. It looked like it had been placed there with a pair of tongs by someone who took great pains to place it symmetrically, at the precise center of the ottoman. In the middle of the button. In his apartment, where he lived alone and never entertained. Even his mother hadn’t been to visit since October – she never drove up to the mountains when snow was a possibility. Ted silently formed the word “why?” on his lips, then reached for his phone. He could call his mother, but the thought wearied him. Her incredulity at the presence of the crouton would lead to a paranoid rant about the derelict ski bums who inhabited Breckenridge, followed by a plea to move in with her or “find some friends, maybe a nice girl.” She would quiz him again about his sexual orientation, suggesting that it was OK with her if he were gay if it meant he had someone to talk to. She would tie the crouton into an indictment of his mental health, telling him he was going “stir crazy” or getting cabin fever from the long winters. He could call the police, but even the cops in a small town don’t have much patience for something as ridiculous as this. It was even more inane than the time last summer when he heard – or at least thought he heard – his doorbell ring at 3 in the morning. When he looked through the peephole, he saw what looked like a guy wearing an astronaut’s helmet, peering right back at him.

Page 4 The cop who showed up actually had a shotgun in hand, and he stalked around the building and up and down the hall before asking Ted to close the door and look again through the peephole. The astronaut was still there, apparently some optical illusion caused by the glass of the peephole with the hall light. The cop was pretty nice. He didn’t laugh but acted as if it happened all the time. Ted could imagine getting the same guy to come investigate the case of the ottoman crouton. He’d get the reputation as some crank loner, cooking up bizarre stories to get attention. He slipped his phone back into his pocket. He squinted at the crouton and then walked into the kitchen. He opened every cabinet, every door and rummaged through the tiny closet pantry to see if somehow he had purchased a box of croutons, forgotten about it, and, while sleepwalking, perhaps, had placed one of the damn things on his ottoman. He took Ambien, and he’d read stories about people doing weird things in the middle of the night under the influence of the drug. It was preposterous, though, to think that he could have driven to the store, purchased a box of croutons, removed one and placed it on the ottoman and then gotten rid of the rest – for he could find no box anywhere in the apartment. There was the cleaning woman who came in once a week. But she was very good — a woman who removed things like errant croutons; she didn’t place them there. Ted pulled out his phone again to check the time. It was already a good 20 minutes past the time when he’d have begun his evening rituals of uncorking a bottle of wine and preparing dinner. “Damn!” he said, slightly stamping one foot. As a dramatic gesture, it was weak. He thought about stamping again, much harder, but he now felt the moment had passed. And what about the people who lived below him?

Page 5 He walked back into the living room and glared at the crouton again. There it sat, unmoving, unthreatening except for the story – the mystery, he supposed – behind its arrival in his apartment. Ted started to reach for the crouton, with the idea that he would simply throw it down the sink and grind it up in the food disposal. But his hand stopped about halfway, and he looked around. If he discounted the possibility that he had installed the crouton in his apartment on an Ambien-crazed night mission, and that it hadn’t somehow arrived by accident or been placed there by some insane prankster, then he had to accept its presence and the fact that he would likely never know the answer. Its idealized location at the center of the ottoman suggested that whatever force had put it there understood Ted’s need for order. Removing it could disrupt some new equilibrium that now existed in his space. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought, Ted,” he said aloud. Then he laughed an artificial laugh, crossed his arms and looked down at the crouton. It was time to make dinner.

***

Knowing there was little chance he’d sleep with the alien presence in the adjoining room, Ted took a pair of cooking tongs and removed the crouton from the ottoman around 11 p.m. For a moment, he stood in the middle of the room, holding the crouton in the tongs out in front of him like it was a chunk of nuclear waste. He considered saving the crouton as some kind of “evidence” (they could do DNA testing on it, perhaps, and identify the crouton-placer that way), but ultimately he opted for the food disposal option, allowing the water to run for an extra minute after the grinding stopped to ensure it was washed away completely.

Page 6 And when he returned home from work the next day, the crouton was there again, in the exact same spot. Ted froze, again, but his body’s internal processes moved into high gear: The dormant anxiety bomb inside his chest inflated to the size of a softball – maybe even a basketball. He could feel various chemicals being released into his bloodstream: adrenaline, norepinephrine, god knew what else. Perspiration spiked all around, with a concentration around the back of his neck and collar. His mouth went immediately dry, and the phenomenon he’d always thought of as “principal’s office stomach” hit him with the force of a jackhammer. He felt his bowels twitch and hold, but his bladder let go completely. He stood there for several seconds before he even realized he’d completely wet himself. The pee was hot on his leg, and it was making an exit via his left pant leg onto his extremely clean white carpet. Moving quickly, an adrenaline-fueled antelope before the lion, he made a quantum leap into the bathroom, where he stripped off his pants and boxers in the shower, pulled his shirt over his head and turned on the water. Normally, Ted was the kind of guy who stood outside the shower, monkeying with the handle to get the water to the perfect temperature before stepping in. It always made him laugh how, in movies, people always got into the shower first and then turned the water on. That would never work in Breckenridge, where the water entered the house at, it seemed, exactly 32.1 degrees Fahrenheit. But that’s exactly what he did in this case, and the resulting blast of frigid water caused him to jump backwards, slip, fall and crack his head on the tub. He was knocked unconscious, but only briefly. The water was jetting down his throat and up his nose, activating his gag reflex and reviving him, he later imagined, just in time.

Page 7 He’d been out just long enough for the hot water to have reached the shower, so in addition to choking on the water, he was also being scalded. With a bizarre, inhuman croak he’d recall later with equal parts wonder and horror, Ted pulled himself out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor, bringing the shower curtain with him. Bleeding profusely from his head wound, scalded about the chest and face and still barely conscious, Ted lay there for a moment wrapped in the wretched plastic shower curtain, highly cognizant of the fact that he was all alone. There was no one to call out to, no one to help, no one to give a damn that he’d just had all this shit happen to him. He had to digest all of what had just transpired and make it right all on his own, as he always had. The temptation was to lie there on the floor for some time, but there were several factors convincing him that he needed to spring into action. These were: 1. The hot water in his apartment did not last very long, and if he wanted a warm shower to wash away the blood, urine and shower-curtain filth that now coated him, he’d need to act quickly. 2. His head was bleeding quite heavily, from somewhere around the back; his face and neck were on fire from the hot water. This was something that needed immediate attention – possibly even a trip to the hospital and/or a burn center of some sort. 3. The crouton was still out there. Ted didn’t believe it was necessarily doing anything that required further action on his part, but it bore close watching.

Struggling to his feet and extricating himself from the shower curtain, Ted first pushed the shower handle to the middle. He was able to get the bloody curtain more or less in place and step under the stream of water. He watched in amazement as the water circling down the drain turned bright red, but after a moment it lightened up a bit, giving him hope

Page 8 that a Band-Aid would do the trick. Where the hot water had scalded him still felt unpleasant, but he soon became reasonably sure that he hadn’t been horribly disfigured and wouldn’t need years of painful recovery. (As an avid watcher of medical shows on the Discovery Channel, Ted was all too aware of what burn victims had to endure.) He skipped shampoo for fear that it would irritate his wound, but his faculties had returned well enough for him to clean and dry himself off properly and get into clean clothes. His head he wrapped in turban fashioned from a large towel. Ted knew how to wrap a turban because he’d had a Sikh roommate in college at Boulder, and he’d once had Dalip show him how to do it. It always pleased Ted to be able to deploy knowledge he’d acquired, especially when it was knowledge that initially appeared useless. Even with the towel-turban, though, Ted could tell his head wound was still bleeding and that he’d probably need stitches. That meant a drive to the clinic, which was no doubt full of skiers getting their torn ACLs and broken legs looked after. It was Christmas week, after all, and Ted could probably look forward to a long wait – unless he could somehow contrive to start gushing blood onto the floor. The though of standing there bleeding in his makeshift turban surrounded by gaping Iowa skiers made him chuckle in anticipation: Maybe a trip to the clinic would be more fun than he thought. Laughing made the blood flow more freely, some of it oozing out from beneath the towel and onto his neck. Grabbing a box of Kleenex off the night table, he stepped into the foyer and pulled his coat on while he stuffed some tissues up the back of the turban. As he zipped, he regarded the cursed crouton sitting there on the ottoman. It was oblivious to all the pain it had caused him, and it mocked him in the highly annoying way only non-sentient things can mock. Fear of the crouton and what had caused it to be in his

Page 9 apartment had been replaced, at least temporarily, by anger. This little piece of dried bread and spices was really pissing him off. Of course, it must be a different crouton, Ted reasoned. But it looked identical: the little flecks of spice, the near-perfect rectangular shape and the brittle, porous surface just waiting to play host to some sickly bottled salad dressing. “Screw it,” Ted said, grabbing his keys. He turned once more to the crouton: “And screw you! Bastard crouton!” A sudden whim found him crossing to the ottoman, picking up the crouton and crushing it in his hand. He let the crumbs fall onto the dark spot on the carpet where he’d pissed himself, and he laughed another fake laugh, a mad scientist’s giggle that pleased him immensely. He strode out the door feeling the situation was well in hand. He’d deal with the carpet later.

***

“What do you mean, a crouton?” “I mean a crouton, mom, a little piece of dried bread you put on a salad.” There was a pause on the line as his mother digested this information. Ted was back in his apartment, sporting a row of six stitches in the back of his head and an ice pack on his upper chest where he’d taken the brunt of the hot water. The doctor told him his burns were relatively minor, but that he’d probably look and feel like someone with a bad sunburn for a couple of days. As for the skiers in the clinic, they’d barely noticed him, involved as they were in their own pain, their own forms to fill out and the unpleasant fact that their expensive ski vacation had been cut short by season-ending injury. By the time Ted got out of there, it

Page 10 was after 8 o’clock, so he grabbed some dinner at the soup place and was eating it on the couch while talking to his mother. The Crouton Incident, as he was calling it now in his mind, had grown too big to keep to himself. The pain-killers the doctor had given him had deadened his senses enough that he thought he could handle his mother’s 20 questions. Spooning cream of asparagus soup into his mouth, he countered her interrogation with what seemed to him Job-like patience. “Why?” “Why what, mom?” “Why did you put a crouton on your ottoman?” “I didn’t put it there, mom. I told you, it just appeared. Twice. I don’t know who put it there. It could have been evil snowboarders, the mob, aliens, an intelligent gas from Pluto. I don’t know.” “A what?! Gas, your gas is leaking? Get out of there NOW, Ted. I mean it! Call 911!” So much for trying a Vonnegut allusion with his mother. After reassuring her that his apartment was not going to erupt in a natural-gas explosion, he asked her to hold her questions until he’d recounted the entire series of events. There was another pause, longer this time — very unusual for his mother, who was seldom at a loss for words. Finally, she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone: “You have to get out of there, Ted. That’s it, that’s all there is to it. Come down to Denver and move in with me. We’ll find you a place, another job. There’s lots of girls down here, Ted, all hungry for a nice young man like you and …” “Mom,” he said, “I’m OK here, really. It’s just a friggin’ crouton, for god’s sakes. And besides, I think I may have found somebody.”

***

Page 11

Although Ted was lying to get his mother off his case, there was a “somebody” of sorts. Her name was Elizaveta, and she was from Kazakhstan. In addition to the area’s sizable Hispanic population, Breckenridge also had a lot of immigrants from Eastern Europe. It wasn’t unusual to find someone from Georgia behind the deli counter at the grocery store, or Polish guys doing roofing or just-off-the-boat Russians or Czechs cleaning condos. One of Ted’s clients had a company that brought them over and found them service-industry jobs. It was Bricklin who’d suggested a maid after Ted mentioned he was spending his Saturday morning cleaning his condo. “You’re doing what? You’re cleaning? Why?” It was what Ted always did on Saturday in his ongoing quest to achieve spotlessness. It wasn’t like he loved the process of cleaning so much, but he did like the feeling of being around clean. He didn’t have that much else to do, anyway. Unlike 99 percent of the town’s population, Ted did not ski or snowboard. He was drawn to the winter landscape of Summit County simply because it was so very clean. Nearly devoid of insects, covered in snow half the year or more and with crisp, high-altitude air, it was almost perfect but for the diesel pickups many locals seemed to favor. “Ted, you are not cleaning your own place,” Bricklin said. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll send someone over, cost you 50 bucks a week, that’s all.” He hung up before Ted could protest. But having someone come into his place and make it perfectly clean once a week? How bad could that be? Elizaveta rang his doorbell on the very first day of September. She had a plastic carrier of cleaning supplies, and she wore faded jeans of some unknown European brand along with a stained jersey T-shirt and worn canvas shoes. She just smiled at him, and Ted felt himself literally go weak in the knees — something he’d never experienced before, so far as he

Page 12 could remember. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was raven black and tied up in a pony tail. She had deep brown eyes and the high cheekbones and pert nose he was used to seeing in Vanity Fair advertisements. She had a lovely mouth with thick lips and slightly crooked, white teeth, which she deployed in a smile that felt all too much like looking directly at the sun. In fact, Ted found he couldn’t bear to look Elizaveta directly in the face after their first meeting. Despite the fact that she was there to scrub his toilet and sink and vacuum his carpet, she was more goddess descending from Olympus to Ted. As a mere mortal, there was nothing he could offer her, nothing he could say, no level ground from which to approach her. She may as well have been one of the women in those magazine ads; the closest he could get to her was to sniff the page. On that first day, he mumbled something about errands and left, returning hours later when Elizaveta was gone, leaving only cleanliness and fresh smells in her wake. So it was just as well that he rarely saw her. She cleaned on Thursdays while he was at work. He knew it was still her cleaning the place, though, because she would occasionally leave him terse notes in her scrawling, exotic hand: Ted, need flour. -E That was one of her early notes, and it was set atop a fresh-baked banana bread. From the start, Elizaveta was more than your average cleaning woman. She did things like clean the silverware separator and dust the top of the refrigerator (both things Ted did, for sure, but he was under the impression he was largely alone in such endeavors). She even folded the end of the toilet paper roll in a neat triangle, a source of mild embarrassment to Ted, who was generally loathe to acknowledge the need for such. For his part, Ted would write notes to Elizaveta before he left on Thursday mornings. Sometimes he would ask for little things like “Please straighten up the pots & pans cabinet”

Page 13 or “baseboards could use a wipe.” But mostly he went for short and cute: “Hi E! Thanks again for doing the things you do! You da bomb! —T” He would imagine her puzzling over his Americanisms, bringing his notes to her friends to help decipher. In his imagination, she would giggle, smile and clutch the note to her breast. On occasion, Ted would contrive to appear while Elizaveta was still in his apartment, just to catch a glimpse of her unearthly beauty. He tried to time it to when he figured she’d just be leaving (he certainly didn’t want to catch her on her hands and knees in the bathroom). These meetings were by their very nature brief and awkward, but Ted was convinced that, after a few years of such encounters, something might come of it. It was Thursday now, two days after the second crouton encounter. No crouton had appeared on Wednesday — a fact that had worked to make Ted even more apprehensive had one actually appeared. Whoever it was, there was some twisted psychology involved. They were messing with him, big time. Logically, Ted told himself, there was no reason to doubt that the crouton placer was Elizaveta. She was the only other person apart from the property manager guy who had access to his apartment. At the same time, it made absolutely no sense for someone charged with making the place spotless (which she did, with flying colors) to leave such an item on his pristine white ottoman. But what if it was some kind of Kazakhstani ritual or tradition? It still didn’t fit. Elizaveta was a perfectionist, a clean freak like him, and she knew how Ted liked things. The crouton, unlike, say, an apple or a wrapped granola bar, was a messy comestible. It shed crumbs readily, left a visible (if slight) slick of oil behind it, and was unwrapped and porous — a natural collector of microbes, dust, pollen, filth. It had taken Ted several days to arrive at the Elizaveta theory for, although it was screechingly obvious, the pairing of the Incident and the Goddess was difficult for him to

Page 14 parse. After all, Elizaveta was the embodiment of something wonderful that Ted desired greatly, whereas the crouton, well, it was an unwelcome guest at best, a condiment nongrata, a flaking, oily intruder that had pierced his domestic tranquility with all the subtly of a Tomahawk missile. Already his mind had conjured what escalations might be forthcoming. Would he come home to find a half-eaten Pop Tart on the ottoman? A hunk of bloody whale blubber or a calf’s liver? In his more elaborate flights of fancy, Ted had poked around wikipedia to identify even more objectionable foodstuffs and their ingredients or properties, just to be prepared if the worst came to pass: Haggis: the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep mixed with onions, spices, oatmeal and suet and boiled in the animal’s stomach. Borewors: sheep, pig and/or cattle intestines stuffed with meat and offcuts, then barbecued. “Offcuts,” Ted said aloud to himself. Swedish blood dumplings: reindeer blood mixed with flour and served with bacon. Seal flipper pie from Newfoundland. “Stop it Ted,” he finally said, closing his laptop. “Just wait for Thursday and ask Elizaveta if she knows anything about the crouton.” And so he did. *** Ted knew from past experience that Elizaveta finished his apartment sometime between 3:30 and 4 in the afternoon. Leaving work early, he found himself creeping down the hallway to his door with the air of a man intent on surprising a burglar. For a moment, he stood outside his door, listening for activity within. It was silent for a moment, and then he heard the toilet flush.

Page 15 Good. That meant she was done with the bathroom, probably. He waited another minute, then made a great show of jangling keys and stomping feet as he entered. Elizaveta was bending over the couch, straightening pillows, her perfect rear marred only slightly by the odd-fitting exchange-student jeans she wore. He flashed back to a time a few months ago when he’d found her in a similar position. Her shirt had ridden up her back, exposing the top of her plain, white panties and a few inches of skin. He was certain it was the exact moment he’d fallen in love with her, because he couldn’t help but notice two things in that flash of time before she stood up: 1.

The panties were dingy and ripped, the elastic band separated from the

fabric. Yet she looked 10 times sexier in them than the most incendiary lingerie model, and Ted felt a twinge of something like guilt: the most beautiful woman in the world wore shabby panties because she couldn’t afford new ones. 2.

She had a tiny tattoo that appeared in the space between the elastic and the

rest of her panties: Two little bumblebees – nothing more.

Ted had actually worked himself up to ask about them, aware that doing so would tip his slightly voyeuristic hand. She paused a moment at the question, considering him and his query. Then she smiled, patting her chest. “Me,” she said. “Busy bee, right? Always working. She laughed a wonderful laugh. “Yes, busy bee, but never the money to go with.” Today, though, her shirt was tucked in, and Ted had to mentally paint the bees in their proper place. She stood up when he entered but did not turn around.

Page 16 “Hi Elizaveta!” Ted said, in a stupid-sounding, faux-surprised voice that reverberated around the tiny condo as if it had been issued through a bullhorn. His eye fell to the kitchen table where his note from that morning lie, crumpled in a ball. He felt a sickening stab in his stomach as he recalled what he’d written. E, had an accident in here the other night. Cleaned as best I could but ran out of time. Spot on carpet and (sorry!) blood in bathroom. Damn crouton, believe it or not! —T He’d guessed she wouldn’t even know what a crouton was – at least not in English. And when he’d written it, the suspicion that she was the bearer of the crouton was only a latent presence in his mind. He’d half-hoped the crouton mention in the note would lead to a longer note from her requesting an explanation, and maybe even expressing concern or regret for his accident. “Elizaveta?” She was still facing away from him, her hands at her sides. Slowly, she turned around to reveal her angelic face streaming with tears. She held her hands out to Ted, palms up, as if in supplication. “Oh, Ted! So sorry … you fell?” He stood frozen for a moment, not knowing whether to maintain some sort of “professional” distance or to step forward and embrace her, comfort her. That, of course, would entail putting his arms and hands around the most beautiful woman in the world. He settled for taking two steps toward her and extending his own palms outward. “It’s, it’s OK Elizaveta. I’m OK. Just a, a bump on the head is all.” She took a step toward him, her hands now together, nervously moving against themselves as if she were applying lotion. She gave him what he interpreted as an imploring look, then cocked her head to the left and down. Her voice dropped to where he could barely hear the next thing she said.

Page 17 “And … Ted?” “Yes, Elizaveta?” The hands moved against each other some more. “You pee … yourself?” He took a step back, then another as her eyes slowly came up to meet his. Part of his brain insisted he keep going until he reached the door. He still had his coat on; he could go down to Clint’s for a coffee and wait a few hours to make sure she was gone. Then he’d call Bricklin the next day and tell him he needed a new cleaning woman. Man, even. A guy would be fine. But he stood his ground, his mind quickly processing the options: 1. Deny it. Offer some story about a friend’s dog, a neighbor’s cat or some drunk guy who mistook Ted’s apartment for his own. 2. Laugh it off. Yep, Elizaveta, that was me: pissed all over my carpet. He could mention some health problem, maybe. But, then, beautiful women didn’t want to hear there was anything wrong with a guy’s plumbing. 3. Tell the truth, sheepishly. With Elizaveta’s eyes on him, he turned away, his gaze resting on the carpet, the spot in question. It looked damp in a uniform circle shape, which he took to mean Elizaveta had already cleaned it. In fact, he thought he smelled some kind of masking fragrance — like Febreze. As he was settling on No. 3 and deciding how to start, he felt a light hand on his shoulder and Elizaveta’s whispered “It is … OK.” Slowly, he turned, his hands finding her waist while her other hand landed softly on his cheek, like a butterfly. “I was scared,” said Ted. “I’m all alone here and when the thing showed up the second time, I , I …”

Page 18 And then her lips were on his and, for the first time since a game of spin-the-bottle 12 years before, Ted kissed a girl. She was, in fact, the only one ever after that, and when their children and grandchildren threw them a 50th anniversary party in 2060, the cake was decorated to look like a giant crouton. “So it was you?” he asked, as they broke off that first, most amazing kiss of all time. She smiled. She nodded. “But … why?” Elizaveta laughed — a tiny, staccato giggle Ted would soon learn to love. “Look at us, Ted. Worked, right? Like charm.” He couldn’t deny it. The damn croutons had done what his mother, half a dozen shrinks and a score or two of web-hookup blind dates had failed to do: got him a girl. Ted smiled a wide smile — so wide, in fact, that muscles in his face unused to such grinning were taxed to their limit. “But why a crouton, Elizaveta?” She smiled, tossed her hair a bit and shrugged. “I poor cleaning woman, Ted. They were on sale. At store.”

The End

About the author T. Alex Miller is a graduate of the University of Colorado-Boulder creative writing program. His writing career has been spent mostly in community newspapers, although he also worked for a year in Hollywood (in development at the Sci-Fi Channel) and edited a magazine in Los Angeles (LA Family). He is currently the editor of the Summit Daily News, a newspaper in Frisco, CO. In addition to his career in journalism, Miller has been active in theatre as an actor, director and playwright. His plays have been produced locally as well as in conjunction with the state theatre festival. They include 5 Gears in Reverse, The Adjudicators, Velociraptors and Outrageous Claims. Miller lives in Frisco, Colorado with his wife, Jen, and their many children. Reach him at [email protected].