Sydney picks up some playing cards, then walks over to a drunk guy and charms him with her latex-covered bod as she steals his drink. She strides over to Dixon's table and fake-trips, spilling her drink all over them as she drops the cards into the brown envelope Dixon is holding. They yell at her. She walks away, holding a diskette.
Russian Baddie #2 tells Dixon, "Enough nonsense." Dixon says he'll go get the cash. Russian Baddie #2, whose accent is worse than Boris Badenov's, pulls a gun. Sydney sees him and runs back, and the shit starts flying. Kick kick kick, fight fight fight, blah blah. How the hell is she able to fight in a latex dress? Lord. Ginger Rogers was right.
The Shaky Font Of Returning Travel. The Taut Tones Of Totally Trite Techno continue to play. Title reads, "Los Angeles." Plane lands. Sydney and Dixon disembark. Vaughn, dressed as part of the cleaning crew, crosses her path. Sydney drops the disk on him. It's amazing -- the clothes really do make the man. I didn't look at the cleaning-crew guy twice until Sydney passed the disk off, and then I realized it was Michael Vartan. Vaughn enters a door, and it's all CIA'd to the max. They start copying the info. Sydney and Dixon walk to the curb outside for their car.
More tension in the CIA room as they struggle to get the disk copied. Sydney looks very worried. Just as Dixon loads her last bag, Vaughn passes by and drops the disk back in her purse. Very nice!
Schizophrenic music change. In a completely lovely, subtle touch, the song is all about how hard a woman's work is. My God. Does J.J. Abrams think we all got off the short bus or what? Sydney runs into her Apartment Of Reminders Of Lost Love just so she can put her engagement ring on and stare at it. She is muy, muy sad. She is Saddy McSad from Sadville.
Sydney's Bedroom/Bathroom Suite Of Perpetual Sorrow And Strife. Sydney's left her bedroom and is now in the bathtub, still staring at the ring. The ovary (tm Sars) continues to wail. And wail. And wail. God, I may start ovulating soon. Fade to a big close-up of the ring, which looks pretty nice. Jennifer Garner looks quite sad, actually.
Thursday night celebratory dinner. SSSWill, Best Friend, Best Friend's Boyfriend, and some girl with a pixie haircut sit around. Best Friend tells a story about how some "rich, entitled son-of-a-bitch" bitched her out for not getting him butter, when really he'd asked the other black waitress for butter. Oh, man, I so sympathize. When I was a waitress, people used to call me "China." As if I didn't have a name, but only an ethnicity, like one of those dolls in the It's A Small World ride in Disneyland. Pixie Haircut says that she thinks some people just go out to eat to abuse waiters (word booty on that). Then she says, "There's some bad people in this world." Now, wouldn't you say "messed-up," or "weird," or "mean," rather than "bad people"? Doesn't that seem like it's overstating the case a bit? Whatever.