Shamash by Chloe Weiss

Leah will you cook me latkes? she says in the morning. We’re naked, staring out the window at houseboats vacated for winter. Regan is from Texas, where there isn’t much Hanukkah just Honk for Jesus parades. I buy two pounds of potatoes at the grocery store and invite her over that night. She calls me in self check-out and says Can Dan come? I’m excited for you to meet him. The net slips from my hand so the potatoes roll to the preservative display. When he arrives that night he’s pretty ugly. His hair is long. He used to be a firefighter. That’s why he’s good with ropes. They met on an app for sex kinks. I wring the moisture out from the potatoes—I remember pulling on the back of her sweaty head. I mince onions, she peppers potatoes. He doesn’t offer to help. I show her how to squish patties in our hands. She sits on his lap while latkes sizzle in the pan. We have to light the candle if we want to make this authentic, I say. I light it with a joint and leave it as the Shamash. She laughs. That’s why I did it. I rush through the Hebrew prayer, look at her when I say Amen. The air is thick, the latkes smoke, the smoke detector screams, Dan climbs a ladder to remove the batteries, I rush to the balcony with a bowl of burning oil, I slip and the oil splashes on my hands, and it’s almost so hot that it’s cold, but she gets me ice, presses it to my skin, I am good with pain. I tell them I don’t feel it. We smoke weed and I ask him what made him move to this town. While they kiss I shove my hand in the freezer and exhale. From the other end of the hallway, she says This was so cool. I want to do more Jewish things. I look at her. She’s drunk. She only flirts with me when she’s drinking. We only fuck when we’re drinking. I want to do so many Jewish things to you, I say. That’s kind of hot, he says. She walks toward me slowly. She kisses me slowly. She looks at him when she’s done. He smiles. She says their Uber is here. She runs outside. He hugs me and tells me it was really really good to meet me and stares at my chest. I blow out the Shamash, dispose of the potato skins. In the dark hallway I wrap my burning hands with gauze, over and under, over and under, picture his ropes tightening around her wrists. 

Chloe Weiss lives in Seattle, WA. From 9-5, she sells data analytics technology to small businesses, and from 5-9 she writes fiction about queerness, illness, and the body. She has been shortlisted for Cagibi’s Macaron Prize judged by Jill Bialosky and the DISQUIET Literary Prize. Reach her at chloeweiss24@gmail.com.

2 August 2024