The man lies, fully clothed, impeccably dressed, in a a bathtub. His chiseled jaw is set. Square. Granite. He takes a deep drag from an almost-finished cigarette. She removes it from his lips, finishes it off. The apartment isn't his. Or hers, for that matter. But he thought it would be fun. To sneak in, hang out, fuck on someone else's sheets. Not a whole lot thrills him, not anymore. Not now that everyone looks at him and thinks, sparkly teen vampire. That kills him. That makes him feel dead. He does his best to try and feel alive. Kisses her hard. Runs on rooftops. Crashes parties. Jumps into pools with his pants on. Listens to Zeppelin. Drives his sorority girl white BMW on the beach. And still. The only emotion he can summon, all he can feel in his gut, in his brain, in the gin-soaked space where his heart used to be: Ennui.