The narrator meets with her best friend Jordi at Jordi's studio for their weekly ritual of eating junk food together—milkshakes this time—a secret indulgence neither shares with their families. Their agreement is to never become rigid, maintaining fluidity in diet and all things. The narrator never tells Harris about their junk food sessions, just as she never tells him what she fantasizes about during sex.

The conversation turns to the neighbor's note about being photographed, which Jordi finds creepy but correctly guesses the narrator enjoys. They then decide, for the first time, to describe their typical sexual encounters in detail. The narrator reveals she initiates sex weekly, not from desire but to preempt the pressure she feels from Harris. She describes their sex as involving many positions driven by Harris, while she is entirely absorbed in elaborate mental fantasies—scenarios involving stepfathers and stepdaughters, or Harris being seduced by an intern. She identifies herself as a "mind-rooted" fucker and hopes her upcoming road trip will make her more present and "body-rooted" like Jordi.

Jordi then describes her sex life with her wife Mel as half-asleep, sloppy, animalistic grinding—legs intertwined, drool, humping without fully waking, sometimes falling asleep with fingers inside each other. The narrator is devastated by this vision of raw physical intimacy, feeling she has "lost at life" rather than just lost the conversation. The scene is set late at night in Jordi's sculpture-filled studio, surrounded by headless body-morphed works in wood, limestone, and plaster.

Before they part—their last meeting before the narrator's trip—Jordi gently suggests the narrator could just fly to New York if she wants, implying the cross-country drive may be an unnecessarily difficult path to transformation. The narrator recognizes she may be making things harder for herself, and Jordi confirms this possibility.

Returning home, the narrator describes her elaborate, anxiety-laden routine of entering the house silently like a thief—turning locks slowly, walking like a ninja, washing up with exaggerated care to avoid any sound. She contrasts this with Harris, who comes home casually and slams the door. She reflects on her psychology: she creates low-grade torture in every moment so that freedom—like dessert with Jordi—feels like a drug high. This pattern of grit followed by release maps onto her creative life of grueling discipline culminating in glittery premieres. Fantasy links both states, from childhood dollhouse dreams to adult fantasies of artistic revelation and escape. As a child, she knew these weren't just fantasies—she really would leave and live a completely different life.