Home in bed, Carrie's feet jiggle furiously. She VOs that it was her first fight with "the Russian," and she doesn't know if it was the strong coffee or strong words that prevented her from sleeping. Oh, Carrie, you should have had a cup of Shut The Fuck Up! It would have solved everything, and mmmm...so delicious!

Char stretches in the park. A cute little doggie runs up to her in a teeny Burberry coat. King Charles Spaniel! Char's voice instantly goes into that upper register that dogs love but people like you and I don't. The dog's owner yells for the spaniel to come ("Princess Dandeyridge Brandywine! COME!") and Char brings her over.

The dog is a "two-time loser" (a boozer and a user?) at shows, because she has a "defect." A too-short leg. Aww. Char introduces herself (the dog owner is Trudy Stork), then they say their goodbyes. Char backs away, looking at the dog, eyes goggling, head cocking. Oh, boy.

Mir hails a cab, gets in, and says "Brooklyn, please." The cabbie barks, "I don't go to Brooklyn." Mir considers this, then says, "Neither do I." Oh, boy.

Sam's going down on Smith. The shot is neatly framed so that his chest fills the screen, and the top of her head bobs at the bottom. He's all, "God you're good," and clutches at her hair. Then a huge clump comes off in his hand. He's skeeved. "Whoa. What do I do with this?" Sam takes it in a tissue, wads it up, and tosses it. She smiles and says, "Where were we?" But Smith has lost his hard-on. He apologizes, and she just smiles (a little less sunnily this time) and says she's going to take a bath.