This morning, Lora, my neighbour, comes over. She is holding a measuring cup.

"Can I borrow a cup of brisket?" she says.

It happens I have brisket in my freezer leftover from Passover 2011. But it's frozen. Because it's in the freezer.

"Lora, I have brisket but it's frozen. Because it's in the freezer."

"I need unfrozen brisket," she says.

I tell her it'll take a few hours, possibly the entire day to unfreeze the brisket. I don't have a microwave.

"I've got time," she says and sits down at my kitchen table.

I really couldn't have Lora in my apartment for the day. I have work to do and- I don't trust her around knives. Lora writes poems. Her last book was called I Like To Watch the Blood Run Out. 

I took the brisket from the freezer and put it on the table beside her cup.
"There's more than a cup. You can have it," I say.

"I only need a cup. I'll wait," she says.

"You sure? Because... I've got stuff to do," I say.

"I'll wait," she says.

"Okay." And I walk away. She needs the brisket. What she needs is to take the brisket and leave. But I don't want to be inhospitable. She wrote a book of poems entitled I Like To Watch the Blood Run Out. There's a knock on my door. I open it to a tall hot looking woman in a business suit. I have no idea who this woman is.


"Where's Lora?" she says.

"Kitchen. Name?" I say.

"Fuck you." she says.


So Fuck You gets in Lora's face and wants to know why Lora was so cold to her last night in bed. I'm doing the math and thinking she is either Lora's 'significant other' or just 'other'. Lora deflects, "I'm waiting on the brisket." That answer does not satisfy Fuck You. She wants to know. Really know. Lora points at the frozen brisket. Fuck You breaks down, cries in deep pain, falls to her knees. "Even when you reject me you're beautiful," Fuck You says. "I love you." And she rests her head on Lora's lap. Lora moves her leg just a bit so that Fuck You's head fits on her thigh.

Not what I expected when I got up this morning. I have no idea what's going on in their relationship but I feel for Fuck You. She's hurt. She loves. Maybe the former is implied in the latter. Is any love 100% hurt free? If I watch this scene much longer I'll start crying. That won't be pretty. Think I'll go into my study. Perhaps they'll leave.

One hour later I come out to discover the two in the exact same position except Lora is now stroking Fuck You's hair. Movement.

"Your hair is like blood running," Lora says. Lora looks at a Kinzu knife on my table. Please don't turn this into a bloody massacre. Please. She turns Fuck You's head so they're eye to eye. They kiss. I'm relieved. They fall on the floor, grope, unbutton, unhook. I reach for my camera phone but... Instead I tap both. I'm thinking they'll probably be more comfortable elsewhere. They get up and leave.

On the kitchen table...the lump of brisket thaws.