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favorite: A LOSER IS JUST A WINNER WHO’S HAD A BAD DAY .
    Fleeta, getting a jump on holiday sales (“Honey, we can’t fool around. We gots to compete with the Wal-Mart for tradin’, and they’s playin’ for keeps”), has decorated the Pharmacy windows for Halloween. She has dressed two skeletons as a bride and groom, inspired, I’m sure, by her subconscious disdain for traditional unions. In the foreground of the window she placed a small fan that blows the long white ribbons on the bouquet of the bride like kite strings; the bony hand rattles a bit from the breeze. Over the happy couple is a sign in Old English script and glitter: GHOUL LOVE .
    “I’m back!” I call out. The first thing I notice is that Fleeta moved the perfume carousel to the front of the store, so a barrage of sweet lavender, crisp cedar, and wild freesia greets me as I step inside.
    Fleeta, in electric blue leggings and a red and white Powell Valley band booster jacket, appears in the office door with an unlit cigarette dangling from her hot-pink lips. “It’s about time you showed your face. How was the trip?”
    “Etta was beautiful.” I fish through my purse for pictures and give them to Fleeta.
    “Well, we knew that.” Fleeta flips through the photos like playing cards. She holds up a picture of Etta and whistles low. “Now, is that a MacChesney or what?”
    “Oh, she’s a MacChesney all right. Hey, I’m very excited about your own news. You went and got
fiancéd
while I was gone.”
    “We live in perilous times.” Fleeta shrugs. “It had to be done.”
    “You’re not having your bunions removed, you’re getting married. It’s a joyful thing. Usually.”
    “Otto is around all the time anyhow, we might as well make it legal.”
    “Did you turn Methodist?”
    “Just Otto.”
    “Are you sure you want to get married?”
    “Why don’t you just congratulate me and git it over with?” Fleeta extends her left hand and new engagement ring toward me. It’s a simple round stone set in pink gold.
    “Congratulations,” I say with more concern than jubilation.
    “You sound like I feel.” Fleeta sits down on a packing crate. “Law me. I never thought I’d git murried again. And here I am, right back in it to win it. I’m up to my left knee in a bear trap. Can’t run. Can’t hide. You know, Portly and I were young loves—and once you had that, you sort of sour on anything else.”
    “You had a fine husband. And he was a good father.”
    “Yes, he was. When he died, I didn’t fit nowheres. I had been in a couple since I could remember. ‘There ain’t no place in the world for a widder woman,’ my mama used to say, and boy, she was right. People thought I was pitiful. I hated that. Plus, I got lonely, I’ll be honest with ye. I missed the companionship of a man. Otto was always hangin’ around, and it just sort of became natural—I started missin’ him when he’d go, and it turns out he got attached to me too. At first I thought it was crazy—and then I thought, What the hell, what good is life when you’re alone? It weren’t the same, going over to Kingsport for the wrestling matches all by myself. Bowling over at Shug’s got to be sad too. One ball. One lane. One scorecard. I got sick of my own company.”
    “You know what you need. That’s good.” I aim for upbeat.
    “Uh-huh. I learnt a lot, being on the market at my age. Most men want a younger wife. And let’s face it, I am many things, but I ain’t young. What men is left at my age would make you weep. They’re like used cars. They look good on the lot, and you get ’em home and they fall apart. Piece by piece. What ain’t rusted out on ’em is rotted out. Otto was about the sturdiest of the bunch. So I settled, I guess.”
    “Otto is a good man; I don’t think that’s settling.”
    “The best part is, he’s older than me.” Fleeta takes a drag off her unlit cigarette and lifts her right eyebrow. “I get to be the younger woman. Trust