Later, applause welcomes the newlyweds onto the dance floor to the music of a xylophone jazz band that I'm not going to name, because they went right to our forums and started pimping themselves as soon as the show ended. Ma Chenowith and Olivier show as much respect for the traditional first dance as they do for other traditions when they also hit the floor almost immediately, Ma draping her big fur stole around Olivier's neck. At Claire and Billy's table, she now looks quite a bit more unhappy than he does. Keith leads David onto the floor and they start cutting a rug; luckily, slow dancing is more his forte, and he's totally getting a charge out of this moment. George smiles at Ruth to see them so happy together (or perhaps he's snickering because all of his knowledge of gay people got zapped right out of his melon), but she's busy staring at the tablecloth in mute despair. Nate looks over Brenda's shoulder at the wedding cake, which is at this moment is being pecked at by a seagull for some symbolic reason. There was all manner of debate about the bird's significance, but all I know about seagulls is that when one of them finds a snack, more are sure to follow. It won't be long before there's an entire flock of them. Which can only mean one thing: Nate, run! Run so far away! Run all night and day! You've got to get away! Claire gets one last photo: a telephoto close-up of Nate's confused, concerned face.

But wait, there's more! As if the very fact of Monday isn't bad enough, Nate and Brenda are sitting silently together in a doctor's office. Brenda is called in to undergo her procedure, and when Nate gets up to follow, the nurse says, "I'm sorry, you can't come in for this." Nate and Brenda look at each other, bereft. It's probably the first time they've been apart since they got married, and it has to be for this. She finally hands him her purse to hold, which under other circumstances I would interpret as a symbol of the completion of Nate's total emasculation, but I'm not in the mood. Alone at last, Nate sits back down and starts crying. Huh, you suppose he's a little more upset about all this than he lets on?

What an appropriately cheery premiere for the final season. And to everyone who's recently been through a miscarriage, let me just say that I can't claim to know what you're feeling right now, but even though we felt horrible at the time, if it hadn't happened that way we wouldn't now have M. Tiny, who is beautiful and wonderful and perfect in every way. So there, Six Feet Under. We got our baby, you bitch.