When his muse died, the poet was heartbroken. He wept, drank, burned his books, but found no comfort. One moonlit night, he went to the cemetery, sneaked into her tomb, and stole her urn of ashes. That night the poet ate his muse for dinner, one spoonful at a time.

As Josephine stared at the ceiling, thinking of marriage, Ferdinand drew circles with his fingertip around her bellybutton. They were naked in bed. Ferdinand’s hand slipped between her legs, and she grinned. An unwelcome visitor knocked at the door. Josephine bolted from the bed. ‘Hide!’ she whispered. ‘Under the bed!’