“Make a list of the things you love about me,” she said. And she would do the same, and they’d meet back up the next day and see if they were really a good match.

Ten minutes to go, and he stared down at his list so far. “Tits,” it said.

His marriage was doomed. She was going to come back with a list praising his humor, his smile, the way he crinkled his eyes when he laughed, the stories he had to tell about his clients, everything about his sexy-yet-casual outfits. And all he’d have in return was this one thing, this insulting, sexist love that he held for her.

What could he love in her? Besides, you know. She always made the bed. Eh. Her way with plants? Sorta. It was cool that she’d taken up whittling. Except it always left wood shavings on the floor. Her family was funny… well, weird. She told good stories, too, but he liked his more. She wore nice outfits, but he paid more attention to his own.

She sat down next to him. They exchanged papers. This was it: the end.

“Dick,” said her list.

“Oh, thank god,” they said together.