Dan Conley

(More on what this is later. Bear with me, or ignore)

She would not give him the last piece of pie.

She had given him the last piece of pie as long as she could remember. Not just pie, either: cake, too. Non-baked goods were also on the list of things she had given him over the years. Bigger pieces of lasagna, for instance. When a piece of garlic bread was burned, she took it. He got the most beautiful of everything they shared.

But no more. Years and years and fucking years of putting other people first, and she was done. There was one piece of pie left. Where did the uneven number come from? Had he eaten it while she was elsewhere, or had a guest eaten one under the guise of going to the bathroom? It was, good pie after all.

Or maybe, god knows how, the pie had been cut into seven pieces. What kind of person cuts something into an odd number of pieces? You cut a line down the center of the pie. You rotate it by 45 degrees and you cut again. Rotate, cut. Rotate, cut. That’s how you cut a goddamn pie.

Which is why she was taking this. This piece of pie was hers.

‘Is there any pie left?’ She heard him as she opened the silverware drawer.

She plopped the slice onto a small plate. The disposable pan was tossed into thr garbage; well, placed, really, but ‘tossed’ has a better ring. She placed her fork on the plate and walked towards the living room.

‘Nope.’