Maria, impressed by Liz's "open defiance of a parental unit [haven't heard that one in a while]," thinks that things are "so twisted and romantic" and that Liz and Max "are totally Romeo and Juliet, against the world." Wait, I thought that was Isabel and Jesse. Whatever -- maybe that means they'll both end up dead soon, which would be ample cause for celebration. Not quite, says Liz, bursting that bubble -- Romeo never called last night. She removes the just-offered plate of food from the guy at the counter, who protests since he'd only had time to take about two bites. Maria bolsters for a meltdown, and tells Liz that "he better be in a ditch somewhere." Liz tells her not to say such things; Maria replies that she just meant that breaking a phone date is a big don't, and Liz says that she's simply trying to convince herself that he's safe, busy, and neglectful. Maria, suggesting the obvious solution, encourages Liz to call "his alien butt," which she won't do because she doesn't want to turn into some co-dependent girlfriend, especially since Max is knee-deep in this whole serious quest thing. Because calling would certainly thrust her into the realm of psycho-kitty. Word, says Maria, but, like, this quest might take until forever, and Liz thanks her for the "pippatalk." Maria continues, assuring Liz that Max is madly in love with her, and tells her not to forget that she's half of the couple. Certainly not the better half. Actually, I don't think this couple has a better half.
Cal's getting a massage by the pool; Max walks out and Cal tells Giselle, the masseuse, to scoot. Max wonders why someone who can't feel anything gets massages, confronts him about the hand-in-the-candle incident, and says he thinks that Cal can't taste or smell, either. Seems Cal has about a bazillion lemons in his fridge; Cal deadpans, "I like tea." Then Cal hops up from table -- as Max recounts his boring, sense-deprived coming out (of the pod) story -- and launches into a lengthy discourse explaining his existence and justifying his choices as Max follows him around the pool. But not before I'm exposed to the harrowing site of a topless Joe Pantoliano, which threatens to summon my last meal. Cal tells Max he's lucky to have any human DNA in him (Max asks if he has "human envy," which is just appalling); Cal can afford any sensual pleasure on the planet, but he can't enjoy them, "not like they can." Max wonders how Cal can stand living on Earth. By way of reply, Cal explains that he's diminished his "alienness" by not shape-shifting, which gives the body a chance to function. By 1978 he could smell chlorine, and then lemons. And that's it. Ah, the irony. Money can't buy olfactory bliss.