Oh, God. Brenda's house. This can't be good. Nate lets himself in, and after registering surprise at not being greeted by any nudity whatsoever, he calls out for Brenda. She yells from the back that she was in the shower, and will be out in a second. Nate starts ranting about his crappy day at work, including an intake meeting that he "totally fucked up." He asked one question, people, and only after David told him to. If that's what he considers a total fuck-up, then he's even harder on himself than I am. As he bemoans his lousy day, a pair of hands reaches into the frame and begins massaging his shoulders. Nate is apparently the only person in the entire universe that didn't know those hands were going to turn out to be Billy's, because he jumps about two feet into the air when he realizes it. Billy reports that Brenda just gave him a shiatsu massage, thus getting a head start on fulfilling our potential incest-tease quota for the week. There's some macho turf-marking dialogue between the two, and then Brenda appears and casually mentions that Billy will be joining them for dinner. Nate's face falls, presumably because there's no more stubble to hold it up.
Later. Brenda and her boys are seated Japanese-style around her six-inch-tall dining room table. I bet that's a Noguchi too. I'm so wrong about that, aren't I? Anyway, Billy heard about the Dead Kid Du Jour on the news, and expresses the opinion that some people just shouldn't be allowed to have kids. Amen, brother. I can think of two people right off the top of my head, and they'll be appearing in the previews for next week in just about forty minutes. Nate whines about his lousy day some more, and Brenda holds his hand to comfort him. This doesn't sit well with Billy, who launches into a long dissertation on the bizarre death customs of various tribes and religions around the world. "I thought it would be good to read up on your boyfriend's line of work," he tells them. "What a man does, well, it's who he is." This bothers me for any number of reasons, not least of which is the fact that our pal Creepy Jesus here is apparently having more success at finding work as a professional annoyance than I am. After last week's love letter to America's pastime, Sars may disagree, but that's her problem, not mine. What's that you say, Sars? I'm fired? Okay. Maybe I'll see you later. Anyway, Billy continues to dig at Nate, calling him first an amateur and then a dilettante. Nate responds with a bunch of pseudo-psychobabble that serves only as a set-up for Brenda's next line. "If you lose a spouse you're called a widow or a widower," she says. "If you're a child and you lose your parents, then you're an orphan. But, what's the word to describe a parent who loses a child? I guess that's just too fucking awful to even have a name." It's an interesting point, and I see where they were going with it, but coming from Brenda, it just seems like something else I don’t really care about. We do a round robin of close-ups on everybody looking sad and thoughtful, and then the scene ends.