Cut to Kameelah on a date with an "Aaron," who is either the perfect man or quite the opposite, depending on Kameelah's syllabic ramifications concerning one-syllable names. "Aaron." Ew. One of the major points on my peeve list would be "people whose names start with two of the same letter in a row." Sorry to break your collective hearts, "Lloyds" of the world. But I am, as of this moment, off the market. Anyway, things with Aaron don't seem to be going well either. She looks bored. She wants to dance. She dances. He sits back at the table looking uncomfortable. She voice-overs "Number 50: can definitely dance." D'oh. No love for Aaron. Back at the firehouse, she fields a call from and turns down an offer for another date with the ill-fated Aaron, under the dubunked-when-it-airs premise: "I have to work." Yeah, well what about the other three hundred or so hours of the week? Montana steps into the confessional once more just to let us know that "one of the reasons Kameelah hasn't had a boyfriend is she's very easy to just write somebody off." Out on the street, Kameelah tells Genesis that "Aaron is not gonna work out." Genesis tells her to "dump his ass."
The deep, reflective, Counting Crows-esque piano jam tells us the Pathos Parade is reaching ticker tape proportions. Oh, God. Vaj is leaving. What have we done to deserve the tears? He says goodbye to Genesis, who regards him with a curious "Wait, THIS was the smell she was talking about" aspect. Elka tries out some of that cool girl material that automatically comes when you start smoking in telling him, "Check you later, babe." Ew. Check for what? I would posit some snarky possibilities, but I keep missing the pause buttons, the recapper's best friend, and letting this scene run into the next sequence, where the lip mics crank to a decibel level we haven't been treated to on MTV since the Headbanger's Ball went belly-up some years since. Vaj and Montana part at the door. And so they kiss in close-up. Please. Stop. Montana tells us in confessional that she feels stuck between two worlds. And in the final moments, Vaj tells Montana on the phone that he has "sappy stuff" to tell her, and then proceeds to nourish the parched craters on Planet Face by weeping copiously on the other end. She cries too. And then she says, "It's hard. Like, I always feel worse after I talk to you." Sigh. No comment. "So I'm gonna try and not call you for a few days." He optimistically suggests a week. Ouch. But no, she bargains him back to a few merciful days of smelly respite, the precise amount of time that she could misspend pining for her pock-faced lover so many miles away, or can start on that list of her own, outlining her own requirements to snag herself a man, beginning and ending with the endlessly essential, "Is not Vaj."