“Have you ever wondered what it would be like

to bake a batch of poisoned cupcakes” I asked my friend- not because I was interested in baking poisoned cupcakes but I was desperate to change the subject

because

if I had to hear her talk about her unnatural affection for her brother

and the story about how she slept with the man she felt was responsible for her other brother’s suicide one more time I was probably going to skip the cupcake part and drink the poison MYSELF

because

her story about her twisted desires was boring.

Her story was boring the first time I heard it and it was boring the half millionth time I heard it.

She wrote poems about her brothers, she bought artwork that reminded her of her brothers, she even had pictures of them next to her bed.

” No.” she said stopping her well worn tale midsentence. ” You know, this is a pretty important story from my life and what you said just now was totally non-supportive and not something a real friend would do.”

” I’m sorry. ” I said.

” What kind of thing to say is that? Poisoned cupcakes. Who would actually  bake and serve poisoned cupcakes?”

I shrugged as she picked a shortbread cookie off of my cookie tray and began to nibble at it.

” An idiot” I said after some careful thought.  Cupcakes take forever to prepare. Cookies though…” I said. ” I can mix and bake and fill and cut those things out like-”

She dropped the cookie back on the tray and our afternoon tea ended.

At last.