At first I’d found her seemingly endless conjugations of fuck amusing, but now it was after midnight and I’d written two hundred words of a two-thousand-word essay on feminism in Woolf and I wasn’t so enamored. A room of one’s fucking own indeed. I found her in the kitchen. Jameson on the counter, Bacardi on the stove. Stacks of plates on the floor. What appeared to be smashed green grapes or ectoplasm on the table. “What are you up to?” I said warily. She looked at me as if I’d asked why kids did drugs. “Writing a poem.” There was, in fact, a notebook lurking amid the chaos. The open page was so scratched out the paper had pulped. On the intact part, a disturbing red stain that was probably, hopefully, just wine. “How’s it going?” I said. “Bloody fucking fuck.” I stifled a laugh. “Come here, you psycho.”
