Once upon a time, there was a husband and wife. They loved each other and wanted to do nice things for each other.

One day they were shopping in a store, a Stupor Sentre. As they cruised up and down the produce aisles, the husband, we'll call him CJ, paused to admire a frozen coconut creme pie. All ready to eat, just thaw and serve. Not wanting to spend the $4-5 to purchase it, CJ bravely wiped the drool from his chin and went on, forgetting all about his dreams of white fluffy coconutness.

His wife, we'll call her Sneak, did not forget. The next time Sneak returned to the Stupor Sentre, she decided to reward CJ for his hard work, and purchase the pie to surprise him.

Well, he was surprised before it was all over.

The first several servings went well. CJ had a couple of pieces, and so did Crandpa. After the children went to bed, Sneak went out to get herself a piece. With gentle precision, she carved out a wedge, not too large, not too small. Steady-handed, she transferred it to a plate, mouth watering genteelly. There was still a half-pie remaining.

Sneak frowned with concern as she carried the pie back to the refrigerator. The lid did not snap on, as one would expect for a pie costing more than $4. She splayed her fingers to hold the dish more securely, so as not to drop it while she opened the magnetically latched do.........

SPLAT!!!!!!!!

Who would have thought whipped cream could be so heavy? It did not tumble at all; it simply turned upside-down and dropped like a stone, landing just inside the door of the refrigerator.

Like a white swell of pounding surf, the majority of the whipped cream rolled underneath the vegetable drawer. The custard broke the fall for the crust, which was cracked but relatively intact.

At least until Sneak scooped it up the best she could, and placed it back in the pie tin. All of the custard was still good, and she was even able to salvage a small portion of whipped cream. The shriveled, tufted heap reminded for an odd moment of her brother Lard's early taxidermy effort, "Study Model of a Mouse".

Love is nothing if not sacrificial, so with the barest sigh, Sneak wrapped up the perfect, majestic piece of pie, ready for when CJ asked for it at lunchtime the next day.

She told him what had happened, though not that the "one good piece" remaining was to have been her own.

The next day after lunch, CJ asked for another helping of pie, and duly received and consumed that one piece.

That should have been the end of the story. But no.

After supper, CJ felt a yearning, for just one more piece of that scrum-diddly-umptious coconut cream pie, and asked Sneak if she would bring it to him. She cautioned him, reminding him that the portion that was left, about one third of a pie worth, was substandard.

CJ didn't care. Coconut pie he wanted, and coconut pie he would have.

Words fail. It really is kindest to draw a veil over the next few moments, as Sneak took the pie out of the refrigerator, taking extra care to be mindful of the lid's inability to fasten properly.

A shriek - or was it a bellow? - a snarl, a hiss, and a sobbing moan later, Sneak bent over the now-familiar crust, hoping she would at least be able to salvage enough off the floor for a single piece.

It took some careful molding, but she pulled it off. There was even a single tiny dab of whipped cream, about the size of a soy bean, perched jauntily atop the swirling mass.

As Sneak stared at it with glazed eyes, her sister, Sneaksis, took pity on her. "Here, I'll take that to CJ for you. You look too guilty."

A few minutes later, CJ called Sneak aside. "I certainly was surprised that Sneaksis brought me the pie. That was very nice of her!"

Sneak smiled weakly and said nothing.

Who would have thought an emotional need for coconut cream pie would be so hard to meet?