Okay, class. We're starting a new unit on poetry. Masculine rhyme is when the last syllable rhymes, like in ball, call, befall, and wherewithal. Feminine rhyme is when more than one syllable rhymes, like in measure, treasure, pleasure, and leisure.

It matters which syllables are stressed. Ball and call rhyme nicely, but running/flying or quickly/tea, even though they end with the same sounds, don't really even register as rhymes unless you put the emphasis is weird places. Singers do that all the time. Sometimes they make it work, and sometimes you can really tell they're stretching. Bottom line: the stressed syllables should rhyme. Add unstressed rhyming syllables after for feminine rhyme.

Do not try to rhyme homophones, like right and write. Do not try to rhyme syllables that are exactly the same, like with wherewithal and all.

Tune in next time for meter.

"Try that again, Scott, only this time, say, 'I would love for you to live here. That would be fantastic.'"

"I would love for you to live here, and it would be fantastic, and I know I invited you a few months ago and I know I keep saying I want you to stay, like, stay in my life, and I'm being a jerk and I shouldn't be passing this up and I shouldn't be letting my stupid feelings get between us just because I can't seem to make them go away..." He grips his hair and shakes his head, then gives up. "You know what? You can stay. As in, move back in. I want you here, so screw doing things right. Pretend I never said anything. I'll go get you your key."

"Woah, woah, hold up half a second. I don't like the sound of, 'Screw doing things right.' Let's talk about it." Maybe a bit of caution wouldn't be a bad idea for us, and I'd at least like to know why he turned me down. "What's on your mind?"

"My therapist and I have been talking a lot lately about focusing on normal, stable, healthy relationships, and I was just... overthinking it probably."

"Me moving in doesn't really fit the normal relationships pattern, does it?" He loves me, and I told him we were just friends. "Therapist aside, though, what do you think?"

"That there's literally no way I can ever hope to get over you if you move back in. But as long as you get that and you're okay with it, I can suck it up if it means you'll stay. Like, it'd be nice if you didn't rub it in, but if you wanna bring people home, well... I guess I'll deal with it. I'm glad you know now. You took it really calmly. I'm the only one being weird about it, really."

"You're not being weird. I worry too. I want it to last. Maybe there's a way this could work. Normal, healthy, stable, relationships that sound like they come from a self-help book just so happen to be a particular specialty of mine." Leave it to Scott to appreciate every single thing about me, even what I was dumped for.

"Stable relationship, step one: find someone who isn't Scott Hoying."

"Lucky for us, I've already done that step." I found Alex. "In fact, we've covered a lot of ground already. We might have to repeat a few parts of the process, but at least we've gotten to know each other. I think we're ready to pick up around step 33."

"What's step 33?"

"It's the step where I make sure I understand where you're at before attempting step 34."

"And what's step 34?"

"We already did 44 kind of out of order, so 34 should be easy." The numbers are coming out of nowhere because in reality, there's no rule book that could handle our situation. I'm making it up as I go along, with a rough idea of where we are and where I want us to be by step 100 or so. "First, I wanna make sure I understand where you're coming from. You're concerned that because you love me and I know it, we can't have a normal friendship, and realistically, living in close quarters is only going to make that more complicated. You're also concerned because even though you're better and you're improving, this still started sooner than you planned, and you're not completely sure you won't relapse. You're being optimistic, and you think it'll help if I'm back, but Esther's really worried, and you think I'll leave again if the going gets rough. And finally, you never want me to leave, and I don't want to lose you again either. People solved this problem a long time ago, actually, but we should start with the other two issues. Anyway, does that sound like a fairly accurate description of where you're coming from?"

"Can I hire you to be my therapist? What's your hourly rate?"

"The last person who asked me what I charge... never mind. I'll take that as a yes. So now I want to make you understand where I'm coming from. Hang on, I need to look something up." I gracelessly extract myself from the beanbag so he won't see my screen while I search Google for the right restaurant. Bestia looks promising. I've had more than enough Italian food in recent months, but I'm not actually planning to enjoy this meal. I have a point to prove.

What I don't have is a reservation. Two weeks? Seriously? I can always call and give it a shot, though. It's after the dinner rush. Maybe they have space?

"You've reached Bestia, how may I help you?"

"I'd like a table for two. When's your next availability?" Scott snorts derisively. What does he think is so funny?

"We can fit you in on the eighteenth at eight o' clock. What name is the reservation under?"

"Mitch. Scott, do you have a calendar? Are you free the eighteenth? Not this Wednesday, but the one after?"

He stands and takes the phone right out of my hand. "This is Scott Hoying. I'd like a table for two tonight. We'll be arriving in half an hour... Perfect... Aw, thanks... Absolutely, of course... You too. Bye."

Well, that's one way to do it. Scott changes quickly, then orders us a car to the Arts District. Once he's fulfilled the driver' request for a selfie, he settles in and asks, "Is step 34 going to a restaurant?"

"We're still on 33. I know where you stand, but I still haven't explained where I stand to you. Thirty-four will be faster, I promise."

The girl from the phone shows us to the mezzanine, where our table overlooks the whole restaurant. There's an industrial/rustic vibe going on, with unfinished wood, exposed brick, uncovered Edison bulbs, and metal beams painted matte black. Very 2015. Scott signs our server's notebook, and her eyes turn shyly toward me. Thank goodness. I was feeling left out in the Uber. She probably only knows about me because of Scott, but I'll take it. I sign my own name where she points on the same page, and I can't help noticing Scott's autograph has gotten a lot sloppier in the last few years. He still did private performances, but after the first year, he dropped meet and greets. He did way fewer interviews as well. It was understood that he was generally pretty inaccessible.

When our waitress comes, I ask for the liver pâté, and Scott chokes on his water. I'm forced to order for him too while he recovers from a coughing fit. "Mitchell Coby Michael Grassi," he wheezes, "did you just order liver pâté? On purpose?" I nod cautiously. "You've changed more than I thought! Just recently, someone on Twitter was saying how... how..."

"Go on."

He shakes his head in disbelief. The light still hasn't dawned. As far as he knows, there's no way I could know about his side account. He doesn't even know Alex knows, much less remembers it. So even if it's me he's talking to on Twitter, he thinks I have no way of knowing who he is. "She was talking about it in the same breath as giving up both kidneys, like it was the greatest possible sacrifice. And you've tried it. She's not wrong."

"This restaurant is known for it. I'm sure it'll be better than straight out of the can." It had better be, because I'm eating it either way. "Tell me more about this Twitter friend."