I’m more butterfly than wallflower, she told him, and he aimed to hit her again, until he tasted her revenge in the sweetness of his nectar.

The store smells funny. When I mention this, my wife says, It’s a boutique. But as I sit as she enters the dressing room, the smell remains.

Ms. Moore came ashore, from a faraway shore, a place we abhorred as a land of bores, so we cut her up and returned her. Whereupon we danced.

We met at the taco truck. She told me her name. I told her I loved her and we laughed ironically. Because it wasn’t the place to be sincere.