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“I don’t think I can do this,” she says, after a pause. “I don’t trust you.”

The girls got drunk, danced to Russian karaoke under disco-light glitz.

Best-selling author Melanie Gideon reads from her novel Wife 22.

The light is like a benediction. My husband reaches for my hand.

We’re stuck floating around on the surface of our lives like kids in a pool.

My job requires me to make things disappear like a Vegas magician.

Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.

The nights she and Wade have sex she can’t do so without feeling guilty.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

He begrudged how money poured through her hands like water.

Of course she had known. Nothing in this life escaped her design. Everywhere, people ogled the ring. Everywhere, Emeline posted pictures.

You’re going to have a difficult life if you can’t figure out where to stand.

There were so many tired, frayed words thick in the air around her.

Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue Culture in bands.

Our eyes searched for the island, but ahead there was only overcast.

“Ki o tsukete!” she called, and he knew the words. Be careful.

The end of a relationship, through four six-word stories.

You’ve seen her almost every day, going to and from the gardens.

The damn dog has been brainwashed. He doesn’t know
us anymore.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

There were classes where you became a family. It was a kind of love affair.

We began to obsess over water, where it came from, where it was going.

Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.

I read an article and learn that the gloomy octopus has three hearts.