I bought a pig’s heart at the butcher’s shop. I wanted the big hairy butcher red stains on his apron red rag plastic glasses to think I’m one of those Brooklyn yuppies serious about meat. I said I’m thinking about getting into offal. He said well try the beef heart or the pig heart. If you’re brave he said. I’m brave I said I’ll take the pig heart. He said good choice you cut out the valves black bits slice it marinate it soy sauce ginger garlic rice wine skewer it or maybe do it Italian if that’s more your style you look Italian. I said I’m not Italian.
I told a guy on my basketball team. He said cool you’re like that guy in was it Angel Heart with organs in his freezer. He’s got big organs himself he’s chubby hairy there’s so much hair in this borough but I think he meant it was cool in fact I should bring a pig’s heart to the season end barbecue if it turns out well he said. This guy is Jewish he married an Englishwoman he’s not kosher his children won’t be Jewish he can eat pig I think. He’s quick he can shoot you wouldn’t think a man that chubby would be good at basketball he’s much better than me I can jump but I’m not that good girls play in our league.
The problem is in the end you’re alone in your apartment your wife’s at work your nanny took the baby to the park you face that defrosted heart you slice off the gristle your fingers smell like blood you think pig blood smells like human blood after all pigs are intelligent mammals you think I have this blood on my fingers now my shirt my hands the kitchen whole damn apartment smells like blood we’re all soaked in it anyway blood was sweet when I was a kid I cut my finger so why don’t I taste it I am mighty I will not die and then you fucking eat the whole raw thing.
Rav Grewal-Kök's fiction has appeared in the Santa Monica Review, was shortlisted for the Best American Short Stories 2008, and is forthcoming in The Ledge. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and baby daughter.