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The Last Olive

Across the restaurant, a twenty-something couple broke up via Instagram DM. Marjorie felt a strange, competitive pang. She leaned forward, letting the candlelight do nefarious things to her cleavage. “I’m serious, Greg. I want the house, the dog, and the good toaster.”

“Because I’m cheaper than a private investigator?”

“I tipped him your dignity. He said it was fine, but it had a small stain.”

“No,” he said, stabbing the cake. “Because watching you plan my demise is better than sex.”