Speaking of setting things up for the coming season in a way that provokes many questions, Will runs into (or possibly meets, like in the old days with Alicia?) Kalinda at that bar, and they have a weird talk:
Will: "You need a friend, K. Or a dog. Maybe you need a dog. Kalinda & Pooch, out investigating."
Kalinda: "I'm fine, Will. Really. What's wrong with me?"
Will: "We're not like normal people, are we? Emotional."
Kalinda: "You're emotional."
Will: "No. Sometimes I'm in the middle of an emotion, and I just look at myself and realize... I'm not feeling anything. I just like acting like someone who feels something."
Kalinda: "You want to stop acting and actually feel?"
(Kidney punch! They laugh. I wonder if he knows what she really means.)
Kalinda: "That's what it feels like."
He leaves her there, for a very specifically 8:45 appointment, and tells her to be good. I hope she drinks just enough and goes home and goes to bed, because how sad. How sad that you finally had a feeling and it burned you so bad that you refuse to have more feelings, ever again. How sad that Will -- who is a questionable dude in a lot of ways, and I mean, how shocking was any of what he said above, really -- is not only her only friend but the only person Alicia's actually close to, in her orbit, at this point. I am glad she has a friend and I think they are a good match for friendship, but it's still lonely.
Alicia and Peter are friendly, a little wary but not dead-eyed or anything, when he comes to get the kids for the weekend. Alicia runs down the bullets -- Grace likes her new tutor but we're not sure we do; Zach's girlfriend Nisa's parents will be sad to know you can't come to dinner -- and she tells her children that she loves them, a dozen times. Like every word's a link in a chain that will keep them from leaving. Keep them from leaving her alone. With a clock that's ticking; that in fifteen minutes will read 8:45. This is what it reminds me of:
"Love After Love," Derek Walcott:
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.