I remember when I was about six or seven years old, Granny came to visit. She gave me some peanut sweets, which tasted horrible, but which for some reason she always carried around in her threadbare handbag, smiled a yellow-toothed smile, pinched my cheeks and bent down slowly to kiss me. The musky, sweet smell of her perfume (I only found out much later it was called Strawberry Musk) made the vomit rise in my throat. And then her lips met mine. I shrieked, tore out of her grip and ran to the outhouse to puke. Since that day I cannot stand to kiss old ladies. Now I pray for Alzheimer’s so that I can kiss my wife again.