"That's a nice picture," Lily says with a sigh, and touches the Journal. She thinks about her future: "Remind me to send a thank-you note to the photo editor." You never know when you'll need goodwill. You will always need goodwill. The marriage lasted six months.
"Is that tuna?" she says, speeding into the kitchen as her daughter begs CeCe to talk to her. "We're doing Comfort Food," Lily grits at the scared chef. "Nobody's comforted by a tuna tower!" CeCe nods at her grandchildren, and raises her voice. "Darling, where are you going?" Lily says she's going out, for a walk in the park. It's just so hot in the apartment, "With the cooking, and the..." The drowning responsibility, the gaping future, the new lack of anything resembling a plan. "And the cooking." She kisses her mother, smiles at her daughter, brushes lips on Eric's forehead. Serena stares at her grandmother, and thinks about her future.
Mozart plays over the next movement in a concerto for which Blair Waldorf and Cyrus Rose have only begun to tune up. Thanksgiving was ruined for a moment, when he dug his funny fingers in and helped himself to her pie; she pointed the finger, begging her mother to make him stop. But Eleanor didn't complain, didn't judge, didn't frown: she fed him. She picked up that stolen pie on a fork and tasted it, and hummed, and they put it into their mouths and chewed. We're still missing the signs but they're there.
They feed each other all the time, Eleanor and Cyrus. They make happy food noises and cuddle together, in love with love and sex and food. He takes her to be nothing other than what she is; her beloved is hers and she is his. They feed each other, all the time.
Blair sits at breakfast with her mother's boyfriend, bagel loaded to the hilt; it tastes like the delicatessen and Jewish Rose mornings. When they're alone it's not so complicated: she waves it triumphantly across the table, to show him that she's eating; he raises his to her appreciatively, like a toast of champagne.
Eleanor enters and the bagel tastes suddenly less savory. "Oh, that's a good picture," she says, tapping the Journal and sitting sweetly on the arm of his breakfast chair. "Lily should send a thank-you note to the photo editor." She asks her daughter about the mourning son, but Blair has no information. "He hasn't returned any of my calls or texts. But the hotel says they keep sending up food, so there's something alive in that room." At least he's alive, at least someone is feeding him.