I remember meeting a guy in a club once, years ago, back when I still thought fun was a reasonable goal. I declined an invitation to go back to his place, but I did give him my number. We hooked up a week later, I dropped by his apartment and sat on a couch with his vacant female roommate, watching her ineptly roll a joint while he primped before going to dinner. The apartment was a sort of collegiate-looking box, with a hint of Z Gallerie and a little Pier 1. Too many scented candles and little pointless objects in shiny geometric shapes. The crap people fill their lives with, they want instant mementos instead of waiting for them to accumulate naturally.

Anyway, what's his name was finally ready, but wanted me to see his room first. I thought, what are you, twelve? Only people of a certain age invite you to see their rooms, from that alone I felt a sudden urge to call it a night. But then I entered his bedroom and instantly acquired several more reasons. First of all, there was incense burning, which I can't stand. Candles, incense, why this mania for fragrant air? One corner was dominated by a large standing cheval mirror, one of those oval ones tilting in a frame. I can handle a back-of-the-door mirror, but a mirror like that screams narcissism to me, as well as twee homo style. I could imagine Catherine gazing meaningfully into such a mirror before going to look for Heathcliff on the moor. But the kicker was his dresser, on top of which was an oval silver tray completely covered in colognes, maybe thirty colorful little bottles of designer cologne, all arranged just so for presentation.

I staggered through an agonizingly long Indian dinner then made a hasty, awkward goodnight, unable to drive the image of the tray of colognes from my mind. I took from my pocket the slip of paper on which I'd written down his address and phone number and let it fall to the floor of the cab. Immediately I felt better. Sometimes you don't really need to know much about a person to realize it's a hopeless situation.