Over by the desk, Susan's date has apparently arrived and is waiting for her. He's all right, in a sort of pretty-boy way, but he's nothing special. I think that for plot purposes, we're supposed to think he's hot, so if you're in a cooperative mood, you might pretend it's the case. She goes over to greet him, and breaks the news that she can't go out for bean curd, because she needs to stick around with Fugit. He protests that he drove all the way there, but she shrugs him off. He offers to reschedule, but she says no, because he's a vegan and she won't give up steak. Please. Again, it's no wonder she doesn't have a boyfriend if she's doing things this ridiculous. Staying with Fugit is fine, but refusing to reschedule? That's just foolish. Susan does a hideously cutesy gosh-I'm-sorry routine, with the shrugging and the giggling, and then she scampers off. Thanks for doing the sisterhood proud, there, Susan. When her date is gone, she comes back over to Fugit and starts working their storyline as hard as she can. After all, a blind date is a blind date, but February sweeps are not to be trifled with.
Pratt and Chen are experiencing the Joy of Just After Sex on his couch, and they proceed to have a conversation about his furniture. Because we really, really care. They touch on the topic of Leon and the fact that Pratt misses him, and then Chen talks about how much she loves her "alone time" -- and considering what a fundamentally cold heart she has, it's probably best that she have as much of it as possible, if you ask me. They move on to a discussion of kids, and he asks her if she wants any. She says that she had a kid once. He's stunned, but she goes on to tell him that she gave it up for adoption. He asks why, and she just says it was "complicated," and she wasn't ready. Yeah, she might not want to get too deeply into that story. She seems to expect trouble, but he's like, "Cool. I'm taking a shower," and he leaves. That scene was seriously so anticlimactic that I'm convinced it went back and robbed them of the orgasms they had previously enjoyed.
Abby gets home, accompanied by the Desolate Piano of Misery. Her answering machine is blinking seventeen messages, which of course she ignores, because they're presumably from her mother. Of course, one could potentially be from Eric, saying that he crawled to shore and is now buried in a snowdrift eating his shoe with only enough battery power on his cell phone for one call, but she ignores the messages anyway. She sits. She ponders. She smokes. The piano rumbles. Finally, she calls the Flying Mom and leaves a message apologizing for not calling earlier and saying she does want to talk. Last but not least, we see her at the store, picking up three-in-the-morning tequila. Which means that even if it's not a convenience store generally, it certainly was this time.