T 5145

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
A selection of obscure raw milk cheeses for a room of the violently lactose intolerant. Mingled with corked wine. Yes he hated the holidays.
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T 5144

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
Her accountant says, I can’t account for your stupidity. She replies: You can’t count, period. Then the dancers crowds the stage. And mirth.
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T 5143

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
She’s disappointed by the decisions that her husband’s taken but knows she will recover, unlike the white rug, after what the dog did to it.
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T 5142

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
He walks up to her at the bar. I fondled you once, he says, and she turns her back to him. He orders a drink. It wasn’t good for him either.
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T 5141

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
The sun rose majestically, lighting the sky up with its incandescence. That was inevitable, he said sipping his coffee. She got up and left.
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T 5140

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
He asked the help to put a laugh track on his voice mail. To relive past glories. To make the calls from the bill collectors funny for once.
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T 5139

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
He says, One man’s treasure is another man’s junk, and she says, Are you gay? and he’s half way around the world before he gets the question.
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T 5138

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
One day the shirt feels tight. And then tying a shoe becomes a chore. And then you wear sweatpants to go buy nachos. Then your mother calls.
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T 5137

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
He presses send. And then he hears an explosion. And then some cursing. He reads the email again. He says “oops.” Not that it does any good.
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T 5136

By Arjun Basu | Published: December 13, 2011
She wants to hold my hand now, she always wants to hold hands, what’s wrong with her? She doesn’t wash. At least not as often as I do. Fuck.
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