The power goes out in Fairview, and Gabby and Mr. Maybe Mayor get stuck in an elevator -- a choice moment that Gabby views as an opportune time to get it on, Marvin-Gaye-style. Unfortunately, the power comes back on just in time for the elevator's security camera to catch the two of them in flagrante delicto. The images get leaked to the press, and Maybe Mayor's "family values" campaign takes such a big hit that Gabby feels compelled to come forward and explain that the elevator sex was merely the exuberant expression of two hot, sweaty, recently affianced people. And it is sort of the truth: Maybe Mayor did mention the possibility of marriage, and now Gabby has, I guess, accepted his casual proposal? Carlos catches the news of Gabby's looming nups on television and is less than thrilled, despite the fact that he's spent the bulk of the episode having sex with Edie in all different kinds of houses (to which she, as a real estate broker, has access). Ian cajoles Susan into asking Mike to a let-bygones-be-bygones dinner, and Susan brings along her caterer as a date for Mike. Mike, who only has eyes for Susan, sabotages all potential for sexy relations with the caterer by gleefully chit-chatting about his many prison stays. At the end of the night, Mike confesses to Ian that he still loves Susan, despite the fact that he promised never to try to lay claim to her (as per the poker bet he lost to Ian). Susan, understandably upset by the news that she was used as a wager in a poker game, gives both men the heave-ho. Lynette pushes to have the ex-cokehead chef/manager's dishes added to the menu -- against Tom's wishes -- and the Scavoria gets a good review. Also looking good? The chances that Lynette will get it on (yes, also Marvin-Gaye-style) with the new chef/manager in the not-so-distance. Oh, and also, the police come a-knocking when Mrs. McCluskey falls down the stairs during the power outage and thus is in the hospital when her short-circuited freezer betrays the undeniable stench of a dirty, dirty secret gone terribly bad (i.e., her husband's frozen body starts to melt).
Previously on Desperate Housewives: Mike and Ian shoved Susan into the pot in a friendly game of neighborhood poker, plus the stuff from last week: Mike kissed Susan, and Mrs. McC keeps a frozen husband in her basement...or as MAVO sums it, she "revealed her secret for a [ironic mini-pause] lasting relationship!"
It's late Tuesday night, MAVO tells us, when the power goes out "all over Fairview." No idea why, either. No storm, no clumsy grid operator spilling a grande soy latte on the bank of electrics back at HQ, no more-than-meets-the-eye transformer accident. Just the Hand Of God, reaching down into the dollhouse of Wisteria Lane and setting the wheels of mischief into motion, I guess! Lucky, lucky thing, too: as see-all MAVO tells us, "For those with secrets, the darkness proved quite useful indeed." For instance, Fairview's "Milly Russell," an overweight woman who can now, thanks to the gift of darkness, "indulge in another night of midnight binging." I'm not entirely sure how the power outage specifically enables this to happen? As indicated by Mary Alice's "another" modifier, Milly also snacks when the lights are fully operational, so what's the big dif? MAVO continues: "Timmy Cooper was able to sneak another peek at his father's adult magazines." Without benefit of flashlight, said Timmy unfurls a centerfold and gapes appreciatively. And again I nit-ponder how, exactly, the power outage greased the wheels here? If Timmy's night vision is this innately good, he could make his way downstairs and visit with Miss Monthly every night of the year, power outage or no. (Though, I don't know, maybe having his parents reduced to candlelight does make it easier for him to sneak around?) MAVO moves on to someone named "Marilyn Quinn," who has the blackout to thank for being able to "steal a few more puffs" of her "forbidden tobacco." Marilyn nervously grinds her cigarette out on the sidewalk out in front of her house and then sprays around a huge can of air spray. Tip to Marilyn: feel free to pointlessly Glade-er-ate the wide, wide open night air, but it isn't going to cover the smell of coffin nails on your breath, nor will it remove the irrefutable evidence of the nasty butt you just left out on the impossibly pristine sidewalk of Wisteria Lane, probably a picketable offense in that town (right up there with pedophilia).