And then a knock on the door kills any momentum the scene might have been building, and the action goes from potatoes to wooden box to knocking of door in nine thousand seconds flat. Surely the human mind cannot move at such a pace! Isabel enters, ranting on the last line of dialogue spoken, "Please stop spying on Jesse." God, gay porn is so boring in the third person, ain't it? Instead of the proper reply of, "Oh, big boy likes it when I look" that would precede the inevitable, Max goes with the drabber, "He's seeing a therapist. I don't have to tell you how dangerous that is." Isabel informs Max about Jesse's permanent relocation to the feted Travel Inn, and then sits on the couch and mournfully rues (well, she does), "Everyone said this would happen. I'm such an idiot to think that I could make it work. That I could be happy." Max comforts her that Jesse was at least trying to get help, which he translates to mean, "That means he thinks there's something worth saving." Well then, it's a good thing her ass-y brother put a stop to that. Jerk. Isabel can't talk about her own pathetic life anymore, so she turns the topic to Max's pathetic life, asking, "How's Liz?" He deadpans, "Cautious." Dude, that's so not a personality description. She's cautious? Like, she's making sure her eggs are fully cooked and she's not crossing against any lights and she's waiting an hour after she eats before she goes swimming? That kind of thing? Well, good to know she's temperate.
It's serve and volley time in therapy again. Question, answer, question, answer, as the eyes of the viewer move slowly back and forth across the court. They're following me. Who is? My brother-in-law. To what extent? He knows I'm coming here. Are you in danger? Declarative answer. Probing question. Declarative answer. Probing question. Declarative answer. Guh. Shake it up, people. How the eyes tire. Melfi tells Jesse, "You're not helpless," and Jesse finally admits, "I want out." Melfi assures him with the staunch, machismo-drenched conviction of his faggy Mr. Rogers sweater, "Then we're gonna figure out a way to get that." Jesse thanks him before noticing the time and apologizing, "I have to get back to the office." Which marks the first time in both real or televised history that the patient, instead of the doctor, terminates the therapy session. People, it just does not happen.
Jesse leaves and Melfi sits at his desk, answering a suddenly ringing phone. It's his "honey," who he tells he'll be "home in twenty minutes." Which he still will be, I'm sure, but not before he hangs up and has a hand come up behind him and take his head down on the desk. Holy bald spot, Dr. Melfi. Anyway, it's Michael, and as Michael holds him down, he stage-whispers (so Shakespearean, indeed!), "What kind of man listens to another person's secrets for a living?" Those with, um, professional degrees? From whence comes the sudden, healthy dislike for the mental health industry? Is this Mumford? Everyone calm down. Iago counsels Melfi to "drop Jesse Ramirez" and then he disappears back into the night. Melfi, shaken, picks up the phone again and dials the police, demanding all sheepishly, "I need the police. No, uh, make that the FBI." So then, good thing he called the police.