As Phoebe exits, a straggly-haired sandwich lady tools up to Prue's door with a cart. Wow. Can I get a job a Buckland's? I haven't worked in a place that offered subsidized lunches since I spent six months at the phone company in London. That sounds like the set-up for a particularly awful joke, doesn't it? But it's true. Swear to God. "I saved you your favorite," the lunch lady tells Prue. "Turkey. No mayo." "You're a good woman," Prue grins, passing "Tanya" a couple of bucks for the sub. Manky Tanya shoves off to continue her rounds. Prue fondles her hoagie while gazing longingly at Andy's photo.
Manor, that evening. By the way, they've yet to film actual nighttime glamour shots of the house, so they're still using that cheap daytime still with the blacked-out sky. Just so you know. Up in the attic, Prue stands at the podium with the Book of Shadows open to the truth spell. "Okay," she breathes, "you win."
Down on the front porch, Piper and Phoebe manage to reach the door at the same time. Piper's laden with volumes of inventory that Jason Stuart, Professional Homosexual insisted she complete that evening. Phoebe playfully offers to assist Piper in return for a little assistance with the dark demonic force of the week.
Attic. Prue recites the first stanza of the spell.
Parlor. Phoebe jokingly chides Piper for not confronting Jason Stuart, Professional Homosexual as she had promised to the previous evening. Piper vows that she gave the bloated fairy a piece of her mind, then wonders if she's getting a zit on her chin. Phoebe peers at her face and sniffs, "Can't even see it."
Attic. Prue completes the spell. A faint gust of wind swirls through the room.
Parlor. Piper fingers her acne and asks, "Are you sure you can't see it?" Phoebe rolls her eyes and blurts, "Are you kidding? It looks like that thing has a life of its own." The Twinkly-Toed Tinkle Of Wacky Wiccan Hijinks pirouettes onto the soundtrack to beat said soundtrack like a red-headed stepchild as Phoebe furrows her dim brow, wondering what in hell possessed her to say such a thing. She shakes it off and prompts, "So you really told off [Jason Stuart, Professional Homosexual], huh?" "No. I lied. I chickened out," Piper replies immediately. The Twinkly-Toed Tinkle Of Wacky Wiccan Hijinks hoists the Theme Mallet, jetes out of my television set, and thwomps me repeatedly in the jaw. The two Ps goggle at each other.
Attic. Prue hesitantly enters Andy's number into the cordless as she checks her watch. The product-placed Bulgari notes that it's precisely eight o'clock in the evening as Prue reaches Andy's answering machine. Prue, evidently expecting to reach Andy himself, is suddenly and somewhat endearingly unsure of herself. She flusters her way through a vague explanation for her call, then practically begs him to return the call within twenty-four hours before hanging up.