Francis: This butter is just sitting here like a cube on my toast. It's not... doing that thing that Jordan does.
Piama: Spreading?
Francis: Yeah!
Piama: Francis, this has to stop. I liked the flowers you had Jordan send me, and the poem he wrote was very sweet, but you're turning into a helpless infant. If Jordan hadn't wandered in on you in the men's room yesterday, you'd still be stuck in there.
Francis: I would've figured it out. No, I wouldn't have. You're right. I'll let him go. It's for the best.