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she spends her hours, half-hours, and quarter-hours in a similar fashion to that of a middle-aged pastry chef at some ritzy-ass restaurant inside of a gaudy hotel; hurried, regretting every touch, whisk, flurry of garnishes, looking forward to her smoke break and being offensively anal about the placement and(more)
"You only have one spoon," Carson hollered from the kitchen.

Frick. Olivia pressed her fingers on the bridge of her nose in despair. This whole evening was supposed to be over already, but of course, that hadn't happened--the toilet stopped working, she had forgotten to buy pasta sauce(more)
"Don't you trust me?"
"No I don't."
"Why not?"
"Because last time I left you alone you broke all the plastic spoons in the house."
"Oh, yeah..." (more)