Up in the Claire, a collection of art supplies is laid out on the table: pens, paper, sketchpad, blotter, a bunch of things I don't recognize, even a candle. Everything you need to make great art. Except the artist herself, who's sacked out on her bed watching Extreme Makeover or something. You ever think we'd still be in the dark ages if Leonardo da Vinci had had TV?
Someone's set up a fancy deep-focus shot at Nate and Brenda's. In the extreme foreground we have Nate's giant head looking for boobies in the latest National Geographic, with Brenda hunched over her laptop at the dining room table in the middle background, and the kitchen waaaaaay in the back so it looks like it's in my neighbor's basement. No birds in there that we can see. Nate finally decides he's had enough of this artful composition, and turns to ask Brenda what time he needs to leave work the next day. Brenda says she doesn't care, and we now see that she's surfing a moms' message board. Nate says he means what time are they going in for the amnio. Brenda announces that she's decided the amnio isn't such a good idea. Annoyed, Nate gets up and comes into the dining room, not noticing or not caring that she's tipping the monitor in towards herself secretively. He says he thought they decided, but Brenda cuts him off and says she doesn't want it. "You know, they can cause miscarriage," she points out. In as many as one in 200 cases, according to some CDC numbers I looked up. Brenda wants to wait until later, when they can find out more using regular ultrasound. Nate insists that they should know about any problems now. "Why?" asks Brenda. "So that we can take care of it," Nate says. Dammit, Nate, you had me and then you lost me. Obviously she's freaked out about this already; tell her you're both better off knowing what to expect, what to prepare for. Which is true. You're not going to get your way here by putting therapeutic abortion on the table in the first round. Which I'm not sure I'd be on board with anyway. Take into account the fact that Brenda's probably still not convinced you even want the kid, and you've got a wide row to hoe here. Brenda pissily asks what "take care of it" means. "Come on, you know what it means," Nate squirms, not meeting her eyes. Weasel. Brenda says she's having the baby no matter what: "If there's a problem, we'll deal with it then." "If that's how you feel," Nate says. Brenda asks if that's how Nate feels. "I don't know," Nate says in that tone that really means, "Fuck no, it fucking isn't fucking how I fucking feel. Fuck." Fade to white/Nate's not so bright.