This year I will win. I will hold the last unopened Easter Egg. Last year it was Claire. And the year before. I don’t think she even likes chocolate. I had five eggs lined up on the bookshelf in size order. It seemed easy then. I would just save the last one, maybe two to be safe. But the eggs called to me from their cardboard coffins and I could not resist their siren cries. Now just one remains. It is the smallest, its purple foil bearing witness to the honeycomb pattern on the chocolate beneath. I smooth the foil with my finger and the wrinkles move from top to bottom. I could open it from the back. I could scratch out a small hole in the chocolate and have a little taste. No one would know. I open the box from the bottom, noting the intricate folds of cardboard for the rebuild. Gently I peel back the foil in one piece. I push with my thumb, harder, harder. The egg implodes and sits in shards on my lap. No point saving it now. I cannot rebuild it even with the foil to hide the cracks. I eat. I lose.
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