Not much, as it turns out. Prue barges in through the back door and hollers, "Innybody home?" Not waiting for an answer, she mutters, "Better not be," and flings her purse down onto the counter.
Bisexual Boudoir. Aviva and Phoebe sit facing each other on the floor beneath Phoebe's full-length free-standing mirror. They slowly link hands and, well, it's no Willow and Tara, thank God, but it is undeniably disturbing. Aviva giggles and shoots a surreptitious glance over at the mirror. Kali blinks in and nods, unnoticed by the Feebs. "She's giving it to you, too!" Aviva pants. Phoebe's clueless, so Aviva slides a nearby flowerpot over and -- get this -- instructs Phoebe to insert a finger. Phoebe's index finger burns bright with the white-hot passion of forbidden first-time lesbionic love, and the flowers bloom. "Whoa!" Phoebe breathes. Somewhere, Georgia O'Keeffe spins in her grave. Prue bursts in unannounced, pulls herself up short for a moment to gasp, and then shrieks, "What are you doing?" Heh. She's going to have Aviva arrested and then send Phoebe off for shock treatments, isn't she? Caught -- if you'll forgive me -- red-handed, the women leap to their feet. Phoebe's mortified and apologetic. Aviva's rude and obnoxious. She orders Prue -- Prue! -- out of Phoebe's room, then wheels on Phoebe to snarl, "She treats you worse than my aunt treats me!" Prue dearly wants to TK the snotty little bisexual miscarriage out the window, but unfortunately is interrupted by the doorbell. She shoots a withering glare at the intrusive nose-picker, then spins on her heel to answer the door. Phoebe rolls her eyes in defeat and follows Prue while Aviva extinguishes the candles on the floor.
I'd normally pitch a fit at this juncture, what with the offensive implication that as a result of parental neglect, Aviva has fallen into the destructive and toxic Goth lifestyle and -- by extension -- paganism and bisexuality, but you know what? I feel like I've been there and done that already to a certain extent, and besides, you won't be catching me chanting "Free the West Memphis Three" in the middle of Logan Airport anytime soon, so whatever. I suppose the difference between maligned, disenfranchised Goth princesses and maligned, disenfranchised gay vampires is great enough to warrant separate attacks on each episode's offensive assumptions, but the ultimate sentiment is much the same: Aaron Spelling should be shot in the head. Fucker.