Carrie rushes into the studio, looking trashed and haggard, in one of those unfortunate loosely-knitted poncho things that made a fashion comeback in spite of being far uglier than just about anything else worn in the 1970s. She says to Stanford that she couldn't get a cab. He asked if one dragged her to the shoot as she held onto the bumper. Maybe she was splashed by a bus, too? Well, she was. We all saw it, in the credits. Stanford introduces her to his b.f., who snaps that Carrie is "about a fucking month late!" Carrie says, "Jesus," but hushed. She leaps in front of the cameras, and the wry, bespectacled photographer starts snapping. Carrie asks if these are test shots, and for coffee, and make-up, and does the photographer mind if she smokes? The photographer says she doesn't mind if Carrie "shoots up." Wow. Cool! Carrie smokes and squints and says she usually doesn't hold people up, but she was "out late last night, and it's [her] personal belief that [she] lapsed into a coma." She smiles, but no one present laughs. Stanford brings her a coffee, then hisses that it's decaf. Carrie grimaces, and the camera flashes.
A weekend morning, which, as Carrie helpfully VOs, is something single people have to themselves. She, Miranda, and Charlotte walk briskly around the reservoir in the park -- Carrie maybe not so briskly. Char complains that they aren't walking fast enough to burn anything off, and Car suggests that they gossip to get their heart rates up. Ooh, yeah. Gossiping is totally a sport. And if you get some good hard laughter in there, well, you're working your abs, too. Gossip beats walking, anyway. A cute guy jogs past, then backs up and says hi to Mir. He's training for the marathon. Mir says hi back, but not so enthusiastically. He says she's got his number, so she should call, then jogs off. The guy? An "ophthalmologist [Mir] once faked orgasms with." Carrie officially calls a smoke break, and they pull off the runner's track and park it in the grass. Carrie lights up as Mir recounts the two times she faked it with the guy, once because "it was never gonna happen," and the second time because she faked it the first time. Char is all, what's wrong with faking? Her WASPy philosophy advocates the fake-out, because "orgasms don't send you Valentine's Day cards or hold your hand in the movies." Carrie deadpans that her orgasms do. Dude, mine? Make the bed. I'm kidding. I'm the only one that ever makes the bed. But my orgasms do walk the dog sometimes. Char says sunnily that faking it beats spending the night alone. Mir is all kinds of baffled. "These are [her] options?" Char says a moment of "ooh, ooh," isn't any greater than the moment when the guy you slept with pours you a cup of coffee in the morning. She jogs off bouncily, the chipper, orgasm-sacrificing bitch. Mir leans in to Car and says she'd take an orgasm over a coffee any day. Carrie says she could go either way. Heh.