Behold, a couch, [says kavinsky. who for once isn't lying about it. there is absolutely 100% a couch, leather, sumptuous in proportions, shiny and modern. comfortable to sit on. or to fall onto, which is what kavinsky does now, sloughing off clary's shoulder like so much animal carcass.]

Hey, sweetheart. Don't go for the guys with accents. [he punches a cushion, drags it over closer to himself. wedges it under his skinny shoulder, then sprawls his skinny legs out.] I know it's the shit you're gonna read about in Cosmo or whatever the Hell doubles for that shit in this fucked up dimension. Guarantee, your snatch is gonna itch for months.