Sarah looked at the Christ Killer, this woman who thought she was pretty, sitting in the chair that Sarah had tied her to, with her head held high and her chin up, and Sarah could see her throat move when she swallowed.

Sarah used to think she was pretty too, with her head held high and her chin up, when she used to play the game. The dating game.

She remembered the morning she stopped playing the game, the dating game. She remembered setting the phone, one of those old-fashioned cradle phones with the curly cord because that's vintage, back on the hook and looking at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful, she was gorgeous and she had a date before the phone rang.

Sarah remembered sitting down at her vanity, one of those pretentious, vain vanities with the big mirror and organza skirt. She had picked up a cartridge of lipstick, painted, smudged and blotted. She had smiled at her reflection.

She remembered painting her nails that morning, toenails too, even though they wouldn't be visible with her shoes on and everything. She had painted them in this unkempt murky green color called Talk Dirty. The color, it was hideous, but the name made it worthwhile. Sarah had always loved nail polish names.

Glitter called Pearl Harbor.

Black called Black on Black.

Pink called Italian Love Affair.

Her favorite was a vivid primary red called I'm Not Really a Waitress.

She had wanted that job, making up those names for nail polish, but then she would know that her creativity and cleverness were being wasted on vain people. People who painted their keratin protein.

It had always fascinated Sarah, how people would color their fingernails even though they're just protein, and whiten their teeth even though they're just an extension of their skeletons, and dye their hair even though, hair is just dead cells. People bleach their dead cells, curl them or straighten them. They run their fingers through each other's dead cells.

Sarah remembered finishing her makeup and she was beautiful, she was gorgeous and she was about to take herself out on a date. It wasn't that she was a bad person, a bitter heartless bitch, but it was such a hassle that she had to pay for her own dinner. She was always losing.

The Christ Killer, the woman, she was looking at Sarah and asking why she was so obsessed with Tony. Anthony D. Dinozzo. Sarah knew what the "D" stood for, but she wasn't telling.

Anthony D. Dinozzo made Sarah feel like she felt when she used to play the game, the dating game.

"Why?" she asked.

Really, there are about seven billion people on the planet, which makes it kind of tongue-in-cheek that the most universal emotion is loneliness. Really, everyone is looking for a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a best friend forever, or at least someone who gets them as good as than their Tivo.

"Tony is not a toy," the Christ Killer said.

The Christ Killer, the woman, Sarah could tell that she liked playing games with Tony too. He was just too much fun. The look in his eyes when he thought he was losing, and he always thought he was losing.

She remembered picking up the Magic Eight Ball that rested on her pretentious, vain vanity with the big mirror and organza skirt, and shaking it. She wanted to know if she would win the game, the dating game. This was before the phone rang.

Outlook not so good.