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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.’”

Marjorie snatched the last olive from her glass and ate it. “Don’t be so sure. I hide the good lube in the same box as the tax returns. You’ve never found either.” adult comedy

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.” She swirled her dirty martini, watching the lone

The answer was four.