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I One week after Buzz and Heather broke up, she dragged her mattress into her living room She moved aside the coffee table and put the mattress in front of the TV Just a few weeks before, Buzz had done the same in his apartment so that he could stay up late and watch movies on his used tube TV One night, he’d arranged Heather naked in different positions on the mattress to take pictures of her Heather had secretly felt like Rose from Titanic, but knew that if she said it out loud, Buzz would dump her Heather both liked and disliked the feeling She’d felt subversive allowing herself to be objectified and observed so closely She also felt like a cheeseball thinking of herself as Rose and not as an obscure gamine at the Chelsea Hotel circa 1973   After the breakup, Heather moved her mattress to feel closer to Buzz, to sleep in the same position he was sleeping in But she also moved it to be closer to the television and further away from the bottomlessness of her hysterics She was crying all the time, and she knew the sadness was disproportionate to the romance She cried in the bathroom stall at work, in traffic on the way home In the evenings, she sat on her porch and watched the sun set at the far end of Augusta Avenue, crying into a jam jar full of whiskey, proud of the tableau she had created   The time had come to cauterise the wound Heather made up her bed on the floor, sat down with her cat, whose name was Fuzz, and turned on the television Last time she had had her heart broken, she and the cat had watched the entire run of Star Trek: The Next Generation She looked at the cat now What would it be this time?   II Sometime in the last decade I began watching TV again At first, the shows came on DVDs through the mail Then they came through the languid Internet of the late-naughts Now, they come full and robust and easy; streaming is the word