The doctor told me my back was hurting because I was sucking in my gut all the time and suggested I lose some weight instead, and I laughed.
Twisters
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I made some soup, she said. She gave me a bowl. The soup was thin, I said, and she took that as a compliment. Then her dogs started howling.
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The doorbell rang and I opened it and I could tell she was angry and I said, What did I do this time? and she said, You don’t text me enough.
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There was a riot here yesterday, an attempt at good gone bad, and within the violence, we found each other and made a plan, so bad went good.
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They surveyed the planet, windswept, desolate, a new home. Sanctuary. The task before them felt impossible. I have to pee, the tall one said.
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Within the embrace of her honesty I found something I might desire forever, and so I told her that I loved her, and she said, Are you drunk?
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He thought he was too old to find love again. When he did he felt like doing a series of backflips. But he didn’t because he had a bad back.
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I may need a shave but I woke up wearing a tiara and believing in world peace, an end to hunger, and that all bad things are like really bad.
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The talk becomes formal. She hands me her bouquet. My paradise comes with leather, I say. She signs the forms. We’re married now, she sighs.
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We bump into each other at the ice cream stand and she says, Were you the one with the mole? and I say that wasn’t me because I hate my mole.
