Tonight is my last night in LA, and all the conversations I've had here are leaving me somewhere between placid and depressed. Glancing at my phone, I see my last text from Mark says, "I'll be home around ten, and we're going out." I look at my phone, which says it's 10:27, and I go back to reading my Junot Diaz book on Mark's L-shaped taupe sofa. I remember reading an article that says L-shaped sofas are very in with bros.

At that moment, the front door bursts open next to me in a torpedo of overwhelming Axe scent.

"Shots-shots-shots-shots- oh wait," says the culprit.

His blond spikes reach for the ceiling in an almost impressive erection, highlighting his tanned face, piercing blue eyes glazed in what smells like rum, and a baby blue polo shirt accompanying slacks. He's panting, and is the type of man I'd see at a shitty club that I'd only be at for a friend's birthday party, and just keep walking.

He stops in the middle of the living room, scanning it. "Where'sssMark?" He asks me.

"Not sure. He said we were going out at ten."

"Oh. What time is it?"

"10:30."

"Oh. Okay."

He sits down on the couch and doesn't say anything, so I go back to reading. Clearly this is not appropriate social etiquette; a better person would engage him in conversation. But given his general smell and the fact that he's swaying like a willow in the wind on the couch, I don't think he'll know the difference.

"Whatcha reading?" He asks, sniffling and still panting.

"Oh, it's 'This is How You Lose Her.' It's a bunch of short stories about failed relationships."

"Oh."

We don't say anything to each other for what feels like 5 years. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a failing relationship myself.