So. I'm buying lunch today. I'm waiting in line amidst all these other solitary workers dreary and silent on their lunch hour. A few people, in a single group, are making all the noise: talking on their cellphones, chattering, and yelling things.

I look up at the big menu on the ceiling. trying to decide what kind of combo I want and I want to add or subtract, when I notice it. It's like a shiver of cold on a hot night. There is a misplaced apostphere. Below the TOPPINGS AND SAUCE corner is a hastily assembelled sign that reads: EXTRA MEANS' EXTRA MONEY

I look around, wondering if anyone else notices. Is that what all the noise is about? But, no; it's just me. And I'm afraid. Of the error. Of what's happenning to me? Of some sort of infection from the lost little mark into me and my work. (I'm working on a book!)

I have to get closer to the menu to order. I don't want to. I feel the power of the stupid mistake. I know exactly why it is stupid. And, of course, I know exactly where the elegant little line should be.

I didn't always. Throughout my whole life, puncutation has confused me. It's a little bit like math and I hate math. There are just too many possibilites. A period, a comma, a semicolon... a colon? I like three. (Three is the perfect number, in case you didn't know.) Once you try to figure out comma position on a compound sentence the size of a paragraph with multiple subjects and description, you'd know why sometimes I wish I could just fucking ignore it.

But, then, I read a book. A small book with a stupid title and some corny jokes. Some examples, some British humor, some history of punctutation, and some real educational skills opened up the world of the little marks and thingamjigs to something basic and iniutiative that I could understand. (In case you don't know what I'm talking about: Eats, Shoots and Leaves)

As I approached the counter, hungry and unsetelled, I reached my hand up to the menu, pointed at the spot where the apostphere belonged, and touched it, once. A little line.