Such messes my spouse left behind. Our finances in tricky tangles. Closets, drawers, cupboards sloppily stripped. All the good LPs: gone.

In Rena’s garden, beside the leaning fence, grew a tree as tall as the house was long. With silvery bark and pale, thin leaves, it sheltered summer flowers and watched them sleep through winter.

Melinda’s appointment is at 2 p.m., but she’s been waiting here since noon. “Just jitters,” she explains as I take a seat on the plush, architectural sofa opposite hers.

I’m delighted to present these twelve stories, a rich mix of genres, moods, and styles, exploring aspects of our inner lives.

She stands motionless on the dance floor, surrounded by ravers who paid to get into this warehouse—her home—for a party that’ll help cover next month’s rent.