Everyone is looking at Harry, but Asshole Anton is the one speaking. Lizzie attempts to appear nonchalant yet somehow purposeful, as if she’s supposed to be there, especially given the wig. She hopes Loudermilk hasn’t seen her, though, of course, who is she kidding, she also really hopes that Loudermilk did see her, that he is contemplating her superhot dress among other worthwhile reflections.

Anton is hissing something triumphant about how he’s been waiting for this moment. Lizzie tries not to roll her eyes. If Anton the Poet knew how obvious and predictable his resentment is, he’d probably die on the spot, not that Lizzie is wishing for anyone to become deceased this evening or anytime soon!

She tries to give Anton the benefit of the doubt. Anton’s broken arm does make him look slightly more sincere, like a general in a movie.

But there’s Loudermilk. He’s very distracting. He’s standing so his face is in profile from her point of view. This makes it a little harder to see his expression. Loudermilk looks—and how to put this with the correct delicacy—like he’s been flash-frozen. He’s as suave as ever, but it’s like his outlines have become just a little too congealed, too straight and thick and real? He resembles a cardboard cutout of himself. If he sways, he may fall to the floor with a little slap.

Lizzie kind of wants to rush up to him, to stroke his perfect satin face and moisten his lips with hers and reassure herself that he’s still breathing, but she also kind of, very briefly, feels like she wants to never touch him again, which is just so weird. It’s hard to believe that a being such as Loudermilk is capable of inspiring total revulsion but apparently this is how it is when he, like, does that. He doesn’t really look any older, but the thing is, he looks so incredibly old? Like a massive shimmering mummy, someone who’s been freshly embalmed and set up in state.

But Lizzie has to remember that what’s crucial at this stage is that she listen to the words of Anton Beans. It’s not easy, considering the fascinating visuals.

Anton Beans is clearing his throat. “You all know,” he says, “the poet Troy Loudermilk. But I’m willing to bet not a single one of you remembers this specimen.” Anton Beans indicates Harry, who is growing more bloodless by the minute and looks as if he may spontaneously shoot upward through the ceiling, propelled by his own ill ease. “The weirdest thing is that you’ve all seen him before. You had the opportunity to recognize him, but you ignored it. And the reason you ignored him is he was inconvenient to your vision. You had a hero in your midst, or so you all believed. A great poet! Why bother with this puling freak!”