In 2002 Netflix sent me an e-mail. Everything would be different now, Netflix said. Its growing pains were over. Netflix had shipping centers across the country, thousands more DVDs, efficient customer service. Kozmo was gone, the home-delivery bubbles had burst, but Netflix was thriving. Come back to me, Netflix said. Come back to me.

I was a fool. I came back.

Our second relationship was stormy and dramatic. I stormed out of Netflix two short weeks later when every movie on my queue was unavailable. Netflix couldn't keep its dignity this time; it begged me, pleaded with me, told me it could change. Did I only want two movies at a time? Did I want a lower price? Netflix's beseeching wore at me until, late one night, I agreed to renew for one more month. The next morning I awoke gasping -- I was trapped! In the cold light of day I sent Netflix packing. I thought I'd never hear from the company again.

Last fall, my wife and I found ourselves frustrated by the lack of video stores in our part of Manhattan, so far uptown that our friends refer to our neighborhood as "Canada." Our only video store had been Papo's Video, a mediocre joint notable only for its bandwagon marketing; done up in Blockbuster's blues and golds, with a Blockbusteresque font in its logo, Papo's was yet another in the long line of classic New York fakes, immortalized in "Coming to America's" "McDowell's." ("They got the Golden Arches, mine is the Golden Arcs.")

Then Papo's closed. And I found that the only thing worse than having a mediocre video store in my neighborhood was having no video store at all. It was then, at the moment of my greatest weakness, that Netflix swooped in.

Oh, it all started out great. Netflix really had changed -- we received every DVD in a day, and they had nearly everything I wanted in stock, and the DVDs were in good condition. We watched "Capturing the Friedmans" and "All the Real Girls" and "Thirteen." I developed a sudden craving for "South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut," and two days later its sweet melodies arrived at my door. Just like Satan and Saddam, me and Netflix were gonna make it work!

But then: "Friday Night." "Raising Victor Vargas." "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." And that's when things went bad.

One's a stately erotic reverie by French auteur Claire Denis; one's a hardscrabble tale of growing up in Washington Heights; one was the highest-grossing independent film of all time before Jesus came along. I ordered them because I thought I should, or because they were impressive-sounding, or because it's really easy to click "Add to my queue" on a Web site. They arrived en masse almost four months ago and haven't budged from atop my cable box since.

"Friday Night." "Raising Victor Vargas." "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." I know I should watch them -- I hear each is really good, in its own way -- but I managed to pick the three movies most perfectly calibrated to inspire my lack of interest. I know I should mail them back and move on with my life, but that would be admitting defeat. I have already paid an average of $26.60 for the privilege of watching each of these DVDs gather dust atop my cable box, their bright red postage-paid envelopes growing dimmer by the day.

Netflix and I have reached the heat death of our once-sizzling relationship. It feels like work watching all these movies. It feels like an obligation to keep this relationship alive.

With Netflix's rate increasing to $21.99 next week, I've resolved to give our relationship a little break. That's a lot to pay to not watch movies. And I just got a come-hither e-mail from another good-looking DVD-rental site, the one run by Wal-Mart. I know its selection isn't as broad, but it might be nice to pay a mere $18.76 to not watch movies for a change.

And hey, who knows? Maybe it'll really work out between Wal-Mart and me. It's a good company, with decent selection and a good delivery infrastructure. Its site is attractive and functional. It seems to really respect me as a person.

Maybe this time it'll be different.

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