But, when we come back from commercials, Bree is still lying on top of her undisturbed bed and George is sitting in a chair, watching her with a concentration that is admittedly pervy in the extreme, yet still, he is completely dressed (minus the tie). And Bree's outfit is also intact (right down to her pantyhose, which as anyone who has ever worn pantyhose well knows, would take some considerable, run-risking effort to remove and then put back into place). And finally: why should George rape an unconscious Bree when he could emotionally blackmail a conscious Bree into sex, as he proceeds to do here? (Not that rape necessarily has any logical relationship to sex, however closely pending it may be, but still...my vote on the "George as rapist" issue is still NO. "George as revolting, panty-groping, pill-swapping midget with undoubtedly unpleasant sexual organs with whom I would never willingly engage in sexual intercourse"? YES.) Bree asks George to be patient as she works through her "my husband of eighteen years just died" issues, and George tells her that, oh, he'll wait for her, all right, but only so long: "There's only so much rejection I can take. I'll do my best. But don't be surprised if one of these days you wake up and...I'm not here." Bree looks utterly unhinged by this news. George makes some mutterings about needing to get back to his room; they need sleep to be fresh for tomorrow morning's "antiquing." He walks toward the door, and Bree calls out to him to stop, please, come back! (Season 1 Bree would have watched him go with amused glee and ordered herself some serious room service. Where are you, Season 1 Bree?) George walks back to the bed and makes some utterly disingenuous objection, like "but what about your rash?" And Bree, her voice strained with a false sense of lusty carefreedom, says she'll just have to push on through! They fall back onto the bed, kissing, and the camera pointedly pans to the bedside clock. It is 3:25. (Insert horrible, ungodly, and surely arrhythmic sex here.)
At 4:30, George is tucked in bed. He has no shirt on. Bree is sitting in the same chair George was stalking in before, back when the world was sane and birds still tweeted and cookies didn't taste like sadness. And Bree? Does not look happy. No sir. She looks like she's been crying herself raw. And she's desperately, desperately rubbing her ring finger. Oh man. That wasn't funny!