March 25, 2023 was a cold, rainy spring day in New York. Charlie was sore from a long run and full of soup, but that's not terribly abnormal. What was abnormal was that he ventured to the PLG (it's what people with mullets call Flatbush) to his old friend Molly's house party. He was defending Bret Easton Ellis by a punch bowl when Molly left to do the host thing--but not before introducing him to a beautiful girl in a yellow dress with big hair and an even bigger sense of humor. She also ran. Fast--as fast as him--and she had the Strava to prove it. After hitting the topics you have to hit at a New York party (Lana Del Ray, Dimes Square, the DNC), they went to the kitchen for more drinks. "Do you remember my name?" Grazia asked. "Of course," said Charlie, debonaire in his vintage Burberry trench. "Roxanne." "Roxanne" and Charlie kissed on the foot of Molly's bed, sitting on a booster seat of ubiquitous black Brooklyn overcoats. They took an Uber to Bed Stuy (mom don't read that part), and the next day--true psychos they are--went for a run around the Central Park Reservoir. They ate dinner at the Ritz Diner on 59th Street afterwards, at which point Grazia texted her friends: "By the end of the week, I will have a boyfriend." As usual, she was right.