By Owen
Cut to Carrie's apartment. She voice-overs that she's "still waiting on the diagnosis" about CIM's interest in her. Because this storyline is as important as Miranda's or Charlotte's or Samantha's. Not. Carrie, wearing a ruffled sleeveless see-through negligee that toddlers have finger-painted all over, answers the door and lets CIM in. He stumbles in the door with take-out food and a video rental for their date and drawls out in his usual laconic stoner-speak that he's making a "delivery." I notice that up until now Wardrobe has been attempting to hide his considerable paunch by dressing him in untucked button-front shirts and long leather or suede coats, but here he's wearing a tight grey thermal undershirt and the jig (or rather, the stomach jiggle) is up. He kisses Carrie hello and she begins this tired voice-over monologue in which she will interpret his every utterance as being either that of a "friend" or a "boyfriend." Save me.
Carrie and CIM are standing in her kitchen. She doesn't have two matching plates or glasses -- because I guess all her disposable income goes towards expensive footwear -- and he teases her about it. Because he's a chic downtown designer and all about aesthetics, I guess, although he's standing there with a beer, his empathy pad-looking belly protruding out there for all of North America to see. Carrie flirts with him and hopes in her voice-over that he's still boyfriend material. I'm just not getting Chris in the Morning's appeal: the dated seventies hippie shtick, the thinning long hair, and that gut. If the producers were looking for a David Crosby type to play Carrie's new love interest, why didn't they just hire David Crosby?
CIM and Carrie watch The Mask of Zorro, and he says that Catherine Zeta-Jones is hot. Carrie thinks "friend." He backpedals: "Not as hot as you." Carrie thinks "boyfriend, and liar." Which makes them compatible, considering Carrie's penchant for dishonesty, I guess.
Later, we see Carrie crumpling up the "ROMANCE" Post-It off her laptop screen while she's chatting on the phone with Charlotte. Carrie thinks she and CIM are "only friends who kiss occasionally." Charlotte wonders why Carrie is whispering. Carrie tells her that CIM's still in her apartment; he's been in her bathroom, probably on her toilet reading a newspaper for the past half-hour. Charlotte and I reply, "EWWW!!" Just then, CIM calls Carrie in to the bathroom to join him. She tells Charlotte goodbye because she has to join her "friend." She opens the bathroom door. I was so expecting the room to be filled with CIM's hypocritical bong smoke. But it turns out that he's drawn her a bubble bath and lit all of her Pottery Barn candles and opera music is playing on the stereo. The HELL? Carrie's apartment is tiny; surely she heard the bathwater running. Carrie beams with pleasure, though, and tells CIM that "it's like a Danielle Steel novel in here." CIM: "From a writer, I'm pretty sure that's an insult." Not from a writer of Carrie's stature and abilities, Chris. Try reading her column sometime. Carrie assures him that she's all, "Wow." CIM drawls out her need to "relax" because she seems "tense." Then the two exchange some stillborn badinage about CIM trying to see Carrie naked getting into the bath, as if the earlier planted image of CIM loitering on Carrie's toilet seat hadn't already put me off of solid food for the three weeks. Chris tells her to enjoy her bath, and he'll be thinking about his non-friend "naked."
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