It's at this point that a very drunk Wilde enters the circle. He lurches in, resting an arm on Ulysses' shoulder and looking extremely fashionable -- sans the giant sombrero he was gifted earlier, of course, as that is now floating in the pool.

"What up," he says. "Is it me? You're totally talking about me, right?"

A joke. They obviously aren't. He's quiet, swaying, and asks for no catch up; he probably wouldn't be able to follow it anyway.