My Dead Boyfriend

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Oh. Hi, Mary.

You okay?

Rough day, huh?

Look, if it... if it helps,

uh, you look really hot.

Who can turn the world on

with her smile

Who can take

a nothing day

And suddenly

make it all seem worthwhile

Well it's you girl

And you should know it

With each glance and every

little movement you show it

Love is all around

no need to fake it

You can have the town

why don't you take it

You're gonna make it

after all

How will you

make it on your own

This world is awfully big

Girl this time

You are all alone

But it's time

you started living

It's time you let someone

else do some giving

Love is all around

no need to fake it

You can have the town

why don't you take it

You're gonna make it

after all

You're gonna

make it af...

How'd the job search go today?

I only ask you because

I have some wonderful news.

I'm gonna be joining you

in that search myself tomorrow.

Hey, how old is

this vermicelli, Primo?

You know, you really

should've come with me

to that hot Vinyasa Yoga class

this morning,

because that scary

teacher was back.

I am convinced

that she sat in her car

for 15 minutes

prior to the class,

holding a gun in her mouth,

trying to get up the nerve

to pull the trigger.

And then I think she thought:

F*** it,

I'll wait till after lunch.

And then she chain-smoked

three cigarettes

and came in to teach us yoga

in the most monotone,

unenthused voice

you can imagine.

I could tell she couldn't wait

for the class to be over,

"When this is over,

I'm getting

a double whiskey sour,

and then I'm gonna taste

that gun again."

Sweated over a hot microwave

for two and a half minutes.

Ah...

Ugh.

Hmm.

That's disgusting.

Primo?

So this was your husband?

No, my... I mean,

he was just a boyfriend.

Uh, can I, um-

Careful,

those things are killers.

They're probably

what killed him.

So you lived together?

No. I mean, yes.

He lived here with me and his

dog, but just for six months.

I kinda wanted him

to stick around till New Year's,

'cause that's a hard one

to be alone.

Mm-hmm. I hear that.

I mean, he caught me

on the rebound

and it never really

went anywhere.

He couldn't get it together.

I had bigger expectations,

of course,

but it never really rallied

past the first stage.

I liked him, but he was more

of a temp boyfriend.

You probably don't need

to know all this.

No, uh, a temp boyfriend?

Go on.

Well...

it's like I was between gigs.

Yeah, I've been there.

Right?

And you were at work

when the victim died?

Yeah, well,

I don't work there anymore.

I was fired today

for being "late."

Wow. You are having a bad day.

Right?

And, uh, what job was that?

I was a temp.

Mm-hmm.

Officer Parker?

Were there any

yoga-teacher shootings today?

Uh, not that I'm aware.

Shoot!

Oh, hey, Paul.

Dead Caucasian watching TV.

Thanks, Parker.

Medical examiner.

Officer Parker.

Sorry, I just want to be sure

this is the dead Caucasian

you're talking about.

You know, right here, right

in this general, uh, vicinity?

Take it easy, Paul.

No, you take it easy, Parker!

How many times

do I have to tell you,

I do not need you to tell me

where the dead body is

when we're in an apartment

the size of my bathroom!

Hey!

Officer Brady?

Yeah?

You want me to get you

a soda, anything?

No, thanks. I'm cool.

Huh. Okay.

Then get the f*** away

from the dead body!

Miss?

Miss...

McCrawley, Mary.

McCrawley, Mary.

Was the deceased sick in anyway?

Nope.

On medication?

Not that I knew of.

Do you dress him?

Not today.

His shirt's on inside out.

Mm. He was probably

trying on a new style.

He had a lot of time

on his hands.

When was the last time you had

relations with the deceased?

He wasn't deceased

the last time we had relations.

Primo, that's your name?

And that's all you do?

You write poetry?

Mm-hmm.

That's great.

So, what,

do you have last name, Primo?

Or is that like a

one-name-poet kinda thing?

Schultz?

German-Jewish.

Mm-mm.

German-German.

Mm-hmm.

Jewish-Jewish.

Sorry. My mother

would drive her car

off the George Washington Bridge

if I brought home a German.

Seriously, I'm not kidding.

But it was very nice

to meet you.

Mare! Here.

Oh, my God.

What?

Greg's here.

Who's Greg?

And he brought that little

f***in' whore, too.

I don't remember a Greg.

Yeah, you do.

Lazy eye, big dick?

Oh, Greg.

That Greg, yeah.

Is he looking over this way?

How can you tell?

Alright, I have to go talk to him.

Zoe.

Mm. I just want to talk

to him, okay? Alright?

Oh, and kinda cute German poet

right behind me.

Come on, you need

to meet him. Come on.

Hey, Primo, honey.

Primo. Achtung.

And that's how

I met Primo Schultz.

A man who should've disappear

into the forgotten wastelands

of "Thanks for the drinks,

here's my fake phone number."

A man who drank grasshoppers,

which, if I recall

from my short stint

working at the old folks' home,

is pretty much the combination

of Crme de menthe

and half-and-half.

And a man who,

if I had had the time

and ability to meet them

all that night,

- would've come in seventeenth.

- Hey, babe.

And yet, in the course

of that first evening,

the seventeenth man's

tortured-poet routine

and his world-weary

artist shtick

somehow seemed to turn

from just plain unattractive

to an oddly interesting,

seen-it-all, done-it-all charm.

There was a distinct success

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