Arthur McMillan threw his napkin down then grabbed the bottle of Tums in the middle of the table.

"Will you look at that, Arthur." His wife Edith sat glued to her chair by the window. "The mailman’s wearing short pants again! It ain’t right I tell you."

Arthur mouthed her next words along with her.

"Them postal workers are time bombs waiting to explode."

Arthur hadn’t realized how paranoid Edith had become until he’d retired from the Army. Now, after being with her day in and day out for the past fourteen months, Arthur spent his days dreaming of how he could get rid of her.

"You heard about that shooting in Texas," she said. "Mark my words, Arthur, death comes in short pants."

The first time she’d said that, Arthur had caught the glint of illness in her eyes, but he knew he couldn’t put her away. So her quote rang repeatedly in his head: "Death comes in short pants." Slowly the solution to his problem had come to him.

He watched the mail carrier’s knobby knees through the window as he approached the house, pulled a package from his pouch, put it down, then turned and walked away.

"Did you see that, Arthur?" Edith peered out the window. "He left a package on the porch. I didn’t order anything, did you?"

"It’s a surprise for you, Edith. Go ahead outside and open it."

The explosion rocked the house. Arthur picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. "You’re right, Edith. Death does come in short pants."