When I received a text from a friend who saw Bill Murray at his son’s restaurant, I made a reservation for the following night. I loved his work, but I needed a date. I called Magda and told her I’d love to bring her. When I picked her up, I was immediately caught off guard by her eyes - brown with hints of green and orange flecks. I thought of a fish called pumpkinseed - orange flecks in its scales that sing in murky water. I could stare at her the entire night. So we sit down and order a honest-to-god feast, including Island Creek Oysters and Foie Fried Rice. We talk for a while and lose ourselves in food and conversation.
When I turn around, I notice that Bill Murray is the bartender. I ask our waiter for a clean steak knife and wait patiently. When he arrives, I try to politely take the white cloth napkin off my lap and put it in my mouth. I thank him, and shove the knife into my chest. Our waiter looks concerned, but he understands. I try to keep the screaming to a minimum while other patrons enjoy their night. I’m not an animal. I spend a minute twisting and tugging, and I drop the knife so I can reach into the cavity and carefully pull out my heart. I walk to the bar, taking my time. I hand it to Bill. He thanks me. I look back at my date but she has already left on her bicycle. I consider vomiting and my vision fades.