"Goddamn it, Harry," I whisper under my breath as, without thought, I stand.

"You know that guy?" Raskolnikov asks.

I meet Philip's eyes and say "no" resolutely, before I reclaim my seat next to number 368.

I hate it when he does melodramatic shit like that. And there comes a point when you cannot turn back.

"Fuck. That must hurt," Raskolnikov says. Blood splits across Philip's knuckles as Tom leads him away.

"Yeah."

* * *

After Raskolnikov departs for his nice life, I call Philip's cell. Voicemail. Of course. He's screening me.

"Of course. Your screening me. That's very classy of you, Harry. Almost as classy as a punch through a pane of glass. Christ. There's an Andy Warhol exhibit at the Late Modern. I'll be there at 6 PM."

In the coffee shop one day, I heard a woman tell her lovelorn friend that if she had to work so hard at the relationship, it probably wasn't working.

"You know, she heard that on an episode of the OC," I told Lovelorn, raising my eyebrows as I walked past their table and out the door to catch up with number 145.

If you don't have to work hard, then it probably isn't love. Before herpes, I hadn't considered working at a relationship for anymore time than it takes a man to come. There would be no herpes singles club. There would be no number 369. There comes a point at which you cannot turn back.