Cut to Brenda's Hand-Job Hacienda, where's she hard (get it?) at work on her novel. Nate enters and sits down beside her, complaining about how bad his day was. Brenda consoles him by running her hand up and down his arm a few times, and Nate fails to recoil in horror while wondering where those hands have been all day. He mentions the Widow DJ, and asks, "Can you imagine hating someone so much and staying with them for twenty years?" "What makes you think people stay together because it makes them happy?" wonders Brenda. Run, Nate, run! He makes Brenda promise that they'll deal with any of their problems before it gets that bad, but Brenda insists that she'll be long gone before he could ever hate her. They cuddle for a moment, and then Nate asks, "So what did you do today?" "Not much," answers Brenda. "Just a client." Alan, Alan, Alan. Again with double-entendres. Brenda reaches down and starts unbuckling Nate's jeans, only she describes it as "releasing [his] cock from the prison of [his] pants." Oy. That must be some Harlequin romance she's writing there. Of course, now I'm reminded of the hilarious Allison Janney scenes from Ten Things I Hate About You, so maybe that's not such a bad thing.
And finally, we cut back to the Formaldehyde Fortress, where Claire sits alone in her room, IM-ing me on the computer with her new bonsai tree in the foreground. Don't believe it was me she was talking to? Well, here's a transcript:
AwesomeAaron01: This information cannot leave this chat room, okay? It would devastate my reputation as a dude.
BigRed2273: No problem.
AwesomeAaron01: I've never bagged a babe. I'm not a stud.
BigRed2273: This doesn't surprise me.
AwesomeAaron01: Yeah, but you heard about that shower thing, right?
BigRed2273: Log off. Now.
Suddenly, Ruth enters, carrying a big cardboard box. It's full of old drawings and art projects that Claire has done over the years, including a picture of the Fortress that's missing both Nate (who had already left for Seattle), and The Late Nate (who was probably working down in the Body Shop). Hmm. Missing male influence issues, much? As they examine these precious artifacts, Ruth reaches out to tenderly stroke her daughter's hair, and we slowly fade to white.
The end. Oh, except for this:
Dear Mr. Ball: We accept the fact that we have to spend every Sunday night watching your show, but we think you're crazy for making us write an essay detailing every little thing that happens in each episode. You see your show as you want to see it, in the simplest terms, and almost always in locked focus. But what we found out is that each of us is an angry cop, and a grieving widow, and a clichéd sister, a gay undertaker, and a wannabe prostitute. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Sunday Brunch Club.