Time lapse, and the Crashdown goes from closed to open to closed once more. It's dark outside now, and Maria and Liz sit at the counter while a beleaguered Isabel continues to maintain some small level of believability with that pretending-you're-on-the-phone-listening-to-someone-else-talk thing, like, "What? What's that you say you'll do? You say you want me to shut up? Well, listen, buster! What? What's that? You say I won't have my flowers in time? But what about…? What?" Isabel finishes up another round of general meanness, slamming down her cell phone as much as one can slam down a cell phone, and turning her anger on Liz when The Waitress Bot fails to take into account the emotional needs of her customer and kicks back to her default setting of just offering her some pie. Isabel snaps that, no, she does not want some pie, but she quickly collects herself and apologizes for, as the UPN so allows, "being such a bitch today." Liz tells her not to worry, saying that she can't imagine the stress Isabel is under, plot-developing not at all awkwardly, "Are you nervous at all? Not about the wedding, but about getting married. I mean, it's for the rest of your life." IT IS? Man, everything I ever needed to know I learned from watching Roswell. Isabel claims she's not nervous at all, that she knows he's the right guy and so on, and Liz and Maria crow on about their own romantic interests until Isabel slips right into a coma (I so feel you! I'm over here! Feeling you!) right there at the Crashdown table. She's asleep in the booth. And then…oh, my, what have we here? Isabel slips into a dream state, whereby she is standing alone in a room with dozens of French doors, open to allow wind to gust in from an indeterminate off-screen locale and blow many billowy curtains around. Oh, my God. Isabel has fallen asleep in the Crashdown and dreamwalked Celine Dion right though the storyboarding process of the video for "It's All Coming Back To Me." All she needs now is the giant mirror and the two-thousand-year-old husband. Then a beefcake-y dude walks into the billowy wind room. He doesn't look two thousand at all.