“I can understand why Jenn is so frustrated,” Peter says, sighing, his voice soft and Southern. He runs his hand through thinning hair. Early forties, I figure: he’s handsome—even sexy—in a cerebral, Ivy League sort of way. With a mop of jet-black hair, a long frame, and dark lipstick, Jenn is visually arresting as well. But despite her looks and style, there’s something faded about her, worn and fatigued. “I’m glad I’m here,” Peter says tentatively. “Really, I am. It’s just—.” He trails off. We wait for him. “I don’t know” he moans, frustrated. “I guess I’m not sure what I want, to be honest. I’m—.” He pokes a hole with the tip of his polished shoe in my carpet. I resist the impulse to tell him to stop. “I guess I’m just, well, I’m confused.”