We sat on the couch in front of the TV, in our Friday night spots. Lazy six’o’clock pink leaked in through white condo slits. Beautiful, but at the wrong angle—blinding.

Luckily, we’d managed to get things just right. Moved furniture, tightened angles. Yet something hung about the house. It wasn’t the bay; we’d gotten used to the smell a while back. And, nowadays, we kept the porch door closed. It wasn’t the leftover quinoa on the dinner plates. I knew the quinoa smell. Lydia made sure I’d never forget it.

Names of producers, stage managers, and stunt men 1 through 4 dashed up the left side of the screen as the right primed us for Jerry. Lydia grabbed the clicker to check the time on the TV. It was 5:59. She lifted her calf off the coffee table and dangled white limbs off the side of the couch. Then, the tapping started. Fingertips drumming on pleather. Brrrap brrap brrap. Returning her leg to its original spot, she swung forward and grabbed the clicker. It was 6:00. Tonight’s train wreck was a couple that had been together nearly four years. The woman, Laticia, was upset with her boo, Daniel, for not proposing. Jerry, with a glance at his index cards, turned to Daniel.

“Son, why haven’t you proposed yet?”

“I just don’t love her anymore.”

Without hesitation, the woman told the bouncer to hold her earrings. The crowd chanted “Jerry! Jerry!”, and the station cut to a commercial about life insurance.