Cut to Sam and Jerry, a.k.a. Smith Jerod, having another fuck-fest. We pan up from a book called The Clitoral Truth: The Secret World At Your Fingertips, by Rebecca Chalker, and see Sam and Jerry straddling each other. She coolly directs him in the lovemaking act. Put your index finger here, insert your thumb there. Less pressure here, mmm, a little higher, ahh. You get the idea. The conclusion? Guess.
Later, as the two lovers walk down the street, Smith tries to hold Samantha's hand. She swats it away like a takeout menu stuck under her door. He tries again. She swings her arm so acrobatically (she needs to avoid that gesture of intimacy that badly?) that she falls into a basement filled with vegetables. Seriously, there's romaine right on her cootch. It's Home Alone comic shit of the paint-can-in-the-face variety. Smith just leans into the opening and calls out, "Babe?" He ignores her humiliation.
Cut to two feet on the sidewalk, one in a yellow stiletto, and one in a cast. Sam and Carrie are going shopping, even though Sam has broken her toe. "It's Smith's fault! He tried to do something so perverse..." She means hold her hand. Jesus. Samantha has to have the slowest emotional growth of anyone, ever. Ev. Er. And Carrie? I can see your bra strap. Though I did like that straw hat and fitted throwback b-ball jersey, so just this once, it's cool. Sam says that "it's part of a bigger problem!" She didn't fuck any other guys when he was gone, and...she missed him! Carrie advises her that "life is short," so Sam might want to try holding his hand. Seriously. Oh, and besides Samantha's emotional issues, Carrie cries again. Carrie is just all torn up and confused about her Bog. She looks forward to Bog going back to Napa and her not crying, soon. Or does she? Methinks she loveth the drama.
Carrie chomps on an apple, preparing herself to write. God, I know it took me long enough, but I see the similarities between Carrie and all the other recappers now -- not just me! We all have to plug into our writing implements and let fly, whether we like it or not. Let me guess: something about an open heart? She bites the apple and writes that if the apple is New York's signature fruit, its signature sound is an ambulance siren, blaring a reminder "that people are getting hurt." She mentions "falling back in love," then writes, "How dangerous is an open heart?" She calls the hospital. Can she be connected to Room 817? Sorry. "That person" checked out this morning. And P.S., you'll never learn Bog's name, either. Ev. Er. I hope it is Ralph or Rafe or Rip or Dirk, and that he whispers it to someone after getting run over by a bike messenger or something. Just kidding.