That night, I turned on the TV, hoping to find a nice escapist movie. Instead I found a Women in Jeopardy film festival. It seemed like everywhere I looked some beautiful but helpless woman was being stalked by a crazed killer. I gave up on the movies, and tried the shopping channel, but they were doing one of their Lethal Knives shows. Next, I switched to CSPAN, normally the epitome of bland, only to find a sociology professor talking about famous serial killers in history. With glorious technicolor pictures of their bloodied victims.

At last I found an infomercial for an acne medication. It wasn’t exactly riveting television, but at least nobody died a violent death.

Eventually—somewhere in the middle of an infomercial for a pot that cooked entire meals while its owners were out frolicking on the beach—Prozac crawled back in bed, and curled up against the crook of my neck. Only then was I able to drift off into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Twenty-One

I woke up the next day, feeling like a used Q-Tip.

I briefly considered taking a shower, but I didn’t want to use the bathroom any longer than I absolutely had to. Which is why I wound up brushing my teeth at the kitchen sink.

I threw on a pair of my grungiest sweats and checked myself out in the mirror. I had bags under my eyes the size of carry-on luggage. And my hair, thanks to a sweaty night tossing and turning, had blossomed into a glorious bush of Brillo. All I needed was a supermarket cart filled with my worldly possessions, and I’d be sharing a doorway with my lactose-intolerant buddy in Ocean Park.

After feeding Prozac a gourmet breakfast of mackerel guts, I decided to drive out to the beach. Maybe a walk on the sand would clear my head.

On my way out to the Corolla, I ran into Lance, who was walking up the path to his apartment. He was positively glowing, probably from a night of whoopsy doodle with Jim.

“You’ll never guess where I was all night,” he beamed.

“Chained to a bed, with velvet-lined handcuffs?”

“How’d you know?” He giggled. “Seriously, Jaine, it was heaven. I don’t think I’ve ever known what love was like until now. Sex, yes. But not love.”

Is there anything more nauseating than a friend in the first gooey stages of infatuation? I could practically feel my blood turn to sugar.

“That’s great, Lance.”

“Hey,” he said. “What happened to you? You look terrible.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

“No, really. What happened?

“Actually, I got a death threat last night.”

“Omigod. That’s awful. You know, Jim once got a death threat when a house he sold turned out to be riddled with mold.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, gotta run. See you later.”

He waved goodbye and sailed into his apartment, still basking in the afterglow of frantic sex.

After a quick pit stop for an Egg McMuffin, I took Santa Monica Boulevard out to the Coast Highway, then headed north to Will Rogers State Beach. It was an overcast day, gray and raw.