“That can be arranged. I have a shovel in the trunk and a very flexible moral code after 8 p.m.”
Greg didn’t look up. “Hilarious. Did you remember to tip the valet?”
“I tipped him your dignity. He said it was fine, but it had a small stain.” adult comedy
Marjorie had been married to Greg for twenty-two years, which meant she had mastered the art of the silent bet. Tonight’s wager: how many minutes into their “romantic” Thursday dinner before he checked his fantasy football scores.
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.” “That can be arranged
“Because I’m cheaper than a private investigator?”
The Last Olive
She swirled her dirty martini, watching the lone olive drift in the glass like a tiny, defeated life raft. “So,” she said, her voice a low purr of controlled chaos, “the divorce attorney’s number is in your phone under ‘Golf Buddy.’”