Stupidity is the biggest aphrodisiac I know of. Stupidity and liquor. The combination of the two is lethal enough: contract a one night stand or an accidental engagement.
So one ignores the impending stomach drop for as long as possible.
—How did you meet?
—I saw him getting arrested.
—Where does he live?
—A couch in Brooklyn.
Really, it’s laughable. It’s fodder. It’s subplot, almost—laughable subplot if subplot at all. Stomach-dropping, too.