Unintentionally sweating from the ears was something Peter couldn’t stand to be accused of, and I knew it. So I stood silently gloating, the naked cat clinging to my breast, as he rolled the deodorant over his lobes. I nuzzled the feline closer and asked Peter where he’d be running to today. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He always followed his nipples no matter what. And today, they were pointing west.

The emerald sparkled in her hand, dark skin glistening in the Middle Eastern sun. Jake Samson, who was part of a tourist group, caught its glare. He told the driver of his Pedi cab to stop, and quickly dismounted. He realized his mistake quickly. The emerald was actually vomit and the woman had been picking it out of her hair. Jake then realized that this was his wife, and that he was not actually in the Middle East, but his kitchen. And that his life was crap.

Sally was elegantly dressed, even for a dead person. Her eyes were shut as they so often were during long nights spent among the living. She always was a deep sleeper, a trait her husband, Pierre, exploited for his own amusement during forty years of marriage. Salty tears streamed down Pierre’s legs as he pulled out a magic marker and drew a penis on his wife’s cold forehead. He always was a joker.

Upon reflection, Andrew realized his marriage had fallen off course, not unlike the failed expedition of Franklin whose men grew famished while navigating the arctic waters and ate each other, but Andrew knew it wouldn’t come to that – for he never liked the taste of flesh.

She sat and stared at Tommy’s face as he ranted about the benefits to cutting the crust off his bread. The date had gone to hell long ago and she was looking for an out. Suddenly, she crossed her eyes, rose from her seat and repeatedly inflated and deflated her cheeks, dropping oral farts throughout the coffee shop.