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Disgruntled and kama sutra itchy, I opened the front door. There she kama sutra was, my mother-in-law, Carol, clad entirely in black, just as she had kama sutra been every day since my marriage to her daughter who had choked to death on a stray piece of confetti as we were leaving the registry office. I saw Carol maybe three times a year. She looked up at me with her sad, green eyes. The sense of suffering was almost palpable. "I need it," she begged. "Now is neither the time nor the place!" I announced defiantly."Forsooth!" she persisted. "Shalt thou not lend me thine shoulder that I may inhale thy sickly scent?" I knew what she wanted. Even though her daughter's ashes had been scattered liberally around the Disney Store in Manchester's Arndale Centre almost three years previously, Carol still maintained that she could smell her on me.
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