Down in Fairview's skid row (who knew?), Bree, wearing head-to-toe pink, walks up to a long pair of legs and nervously says, "Excuse me, Ma'am?" The woman turns around, and we see that the "Ma'am" is most definitely a "Sir." Bree cutely stutter-downgrades her "Ma'am" to a "Miss," and then shows shim a photo of Andrew. The trans-hooker (nice clavicles!) sympathetically tells Bree that she doesn't recognize the boy, but notes that he's definitely "good-looking." The gender-bent lady of the night suggests that Bree go looking at the local soup kitchen. Or maybe Bree should just take a page from the Book of Susan, which declares that the very best way to find a homeless teen is to run around with an ice cream cone in each hand. Bree thanks the wo(man), and s/he introduces herself as "Miss Pearly Gates: 'cause you can't get to heaven without going through me." I was steeling myself for a much cruder joke here -- something about "swinging open the gates" and "getting a piece of heaven," maybe. ["Plus...'pearl.' You know." -- Wing Chun] Bree, smiling uncomfortably (and yet, I think, genuinely): "How very saucy." Why is she doing this alone? Why isn't Orson accompanying her on her dark-of-night jaunt down to skid row? I guess that, as a dentist, his hours are a little erratic, maybe he's got a late-late root canal?
Susan and Ian are at the cabsion ("mansbin"?), sipping brandy. Susan admires his piano, but he sadly confesses that he hasn't played since Jane's accident. The fire is firing, the music is tinkling romantically. They kiss, they sigh. Talk turns to how very long it's been since either of them has sexed it up, and Ian reveals that he's really only slept with one woman: his wife. He's kissed other girls, sure, but they were "twelve." Susan gives him a creeped-out look. He jumps to clarify: "As was I!" Susan tells Ian how "adorable" she finds his near-virginity, and he moans that he'd prefer be considered "dashing and worldly." Feeling insecure, he joke-seriously asks Susan how many notches she has on her belt: "Is it more than three?" She confesses that the magic number is "nine." Ian: "Please tell me that you're answering me in German." Hee! Susan is mad that Ian is shocked, and yells, "Nine lovers does not make me a slut!" Ian: "Why are you getting upset?" Susan, all wound up now: "Because it was really eleven and I knocked off two and you're still judging me!" Ian, indignant: "I'm not judging you, it's just...did you work in the recording industry?" Ha again! And yet...eleven is not a huge number. If we pause for just a moment to runs some numbers: Susan is forty years old, let's say. She has a teenaged daughter, which means that she was married and presumably faithful for -- what, fifteen years? Assuming that she lost her virginity at eighteen, that leaves her with seven years of active dating. Ten men in seven years, that's 1.4285714857 each year, including Mike and that little doctor friend. And 1.4285714857 per year, that is not slutty. Susan: "Just so you know, eleven is not a lot for a woman my age." Ian: "How old are you?" Susan, mad now: "What is this, the Gallup Poll?" And then she stomps off to bed, specifying that she'll be bedding "alone" tonight: "You know, [sleeping alone is] something I've always wanted to try, but I've just never gotten around to." Nice, snappy dialogue between these two, hurray!