She was the kind of woman he could admit things to. Like his pants were tight. Or he liked granola. But she was deaf. And he had his limits.

They were obviously a couple; her attraction to both of them confirmed it. She hated how predictable she was. And she reached for the chips.

She went to a self-help workshop in California and came home espousing Honesty and Freedom and he figured this meant more sex. He was wrong.

The general gave a rousing speech. It fired up the troops. They went out and stomped on all the bugs. And then they cleaned off their boots.

He yelled Shut Up! at the TV and then as if overcome by hiccups he couldn’t stop yelling it and he was everyone’s hero and got his own show.

The painting is done. Her joy boundless. Does it suck? he asks, barely looking up from the paper. And she realizes she’s not creative enough

He’s bored. The party won’t end. His wife keeps talking to stupid people. I’m going to be sick, he tells her. But she’s going to need proof.