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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.