“I shall request a short black coffee with a splash of skimm’d milk,” Shakespeare said. “Sure. That’ll be £2.10, sir.” Shakespeare presented the barista with his debit card.

I still remember the pounding of the rain, the howling of the wind, the white-hot flash of lightning that seared through the night as I breathed life into my creation. While my wife slumbered in the other room, I alone bore witness to the birth.

Already, Joan is running late. But she still hasn’t found the right outfit—the ensemble bold enough to signal a triumphant return from her fifty-four-day leave of absence, but not so bold as to upstage the victims.

The Brand Ambassador stares into the toilet bowl—the familiar third-stall-from-the-right toilet bowl. Her knees throb mercilessly on the cold tile. Body trembling, she counts down from ten. Then in one deft, practiced motion, she presses her index finger to the back of her throat.

Venus loomed overhead, a seething red eye, on the night my father placed the call. Ceremoniously, he dialed the eleven toll-free digits, snickering to himself. He navigated the world like a thermonuclear weapon.

Just as the conventionally attractive couple locks eyes, igniting a passion that burns with the fury of a thousand supernovas, “I’m a Believer” begins to play.