The noise surrounded him, a painful blanket. He opened his eyes and his wife was playing a tuba. When did you get home last night? she said.

He sets up the table; it looks impressive. She walks in and before she can get comfortable he says, I need you to be compelled to love this.

She pours herself a whiskey neat and her friend says, Me too, and she pours her one. They drink. Now let’s complain about the men, she says.

The chef moved from LA to Hawaii and created delicious things out of Spam. He returned home but no one took him seriously. In LA. That hurt.

The cliff divers entertained and the mariachi bands were a benign form of cliché. But what he really wanted was some authentic Chinese food.

The air was thick with something the meteorologist couldn’t explain. It is like love, he said. But the women knew better. It was resentment.