A forkful of lemon meringue pie plopped onto my lap. I scooped it up, put it back on my plate, and let it sit there as a kind of punishment for jumping off the fork. To anyone unaware of my encounter with lemon meringue pie, the stain on my pants would look suspicious. I dipped a napkin into my water glass and tried to wipe the meringue off, but that only smeared it. After a couple espressos, I decided to jog home but slowed to a shuffle after a few blocks. What if I died of a heart attack? What would my wife think? What would she tell the kids? What if some beautiful woman paused to gawk at my corpse and giggled? What would the forensic scientist investigating my death make of the smear on my pants? Finally, in death, would I become the mystery I’ve always wanted to be? I picked up the pace.

Bio: Bob Lucky