SunMoonStar? You da man! Er. Woman. Whatever.
Manor. Prue waltzes through the front hall to answer the doorbell, and finds Andy Trudeau standing there on her front porch. "I was nowhere near the neighborhood, so I thought I'd drop by," he tells her. They really want me to like this guy, don't they? Make him take off his shirt again and then we can talk. Prue's helpless smirk at Andy's opening matches my own as she allows him inside. They chat about the date they so enjoyed the previous evening before Andy hands Prue an early birthday gift. It's a small box in Tiffany blue, but unfortunately for Prue, the contents in no way resemble expensive jewelry. She eases open the lid to see a key. Andy reveals that he arranged for a weekend away from the city at the "Calistoga Spa," and that if Prue accepts, they'll leave the afternoon of her birthday the following Friday. So, uh, why the hell does he have the key already? No, seriously. What the hell is that key supposed to unlock? Whatever. Minor point, I suppose. Andy reassures Prue that lest she think he's just trying to get into her pants, he arranged for adjoining rooms. Despite this, Prue seems a bit hesitant about the whole thing. Andy gently urges her to accept his offer, adding that he doesn't need her answer for a couple of days. He pecks her on the cheek and leaves. "Happy birthday to me," Prue mumbles to herself a bit sardonically as she shuts the door behind him.
Elsewhere, outside a pleasant wood-frame Victorian brightly painted yellow and white, an equally pleasant young man and his mother banter about birthday traditions. Mom's old-school Chinese, you see, and has insisted on leaving a bit of his birthday cake on the front porch for the "hungry spirits" stomping around the city. She'd also like him to wear some sort of protective amulet for some reason or other. The pleasant young man reminds Mom that he's twenty-three now and can take care of himself without relying on some silly, old-school superstitions, thank you very much. He places the proffered amulet on a hook by the front door, kisses his mother on the cheek, and heads off to work. He is so dead before we hit the opening credits.
"Chinatown," which actually looks like a cheap streetscape on the back lot which they've tarted up with appropriate signage and hordes of ethnically-appropriate extras. Mark Chao, our pleasant young birthday corpse, ambles through, calling out greetings to various young ladies. As he passes out of the frame, a shifty-eyed lad in a black knit club-kid top takes off after him.