“Luke!” I bite my lip zealously and nudge the wretched set in frustration. “Something’s wrong with your TV.”

“Nothing’s wrwithwith my TV.”

“No, really. It’s extra fuzzy. We’re talking furbies here.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my TV. Just leave it alone and I’ll be right there to adjust it for you, okay?”

“How about if I give it a good whack? That always works with mine.”

“No, no, no, NO.” Luke comes marching towards me gripping a svelte green bottle in each hand. “There will no whacking of any sort in any shape or form, understand?”

“Dirty.”

“Just drink your beer.”

“Much obliged, good sir,” I say, receiving it in swift stride. “You know, I bet I would’ve made a really great spokesmodel. For beer.”

“Is that so?” Luke murmurs, half-listening as his concentration is now entirely devoted to inching the TV leftward.

Hellooo, I purr. What a delightful opportunity to scope out the scenery.

Unbeknownst to Luke, my eager eyes follow him as he lowers himself to his knees and starts fiddling with the cable. Has he always been this sexy doing run-of-the-mill household work? Surely I would’ve noticed earlier. Please, I mean, look at those fingers. The confidence, the dexterity, the feel of them framing my face from before. I can only imagine what they’d feel like winding round my upper arms, sliding down my inner thigh, grabbing hold of my waist, my back, my breasts, my ass, my…

Okayyyyy, time to take a swig.

Where was I, anyway? Oh, that’s right. Inane chatter.

“Absolutely. I’m charming enough and I have nice teeth and I’m a very responsible driver. What’s not to love, endorsement wise? When I was a little the nuns were certain I was going to be an actress. The actually sent a letter home, warning Emily that she had a deviant thespian in the works. Needless to say, I changed schools that spring.”

Luke pauses mid-sift to stare at me inquiringly. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“I’m not,” I flirt, flipping back my zany hair in the vain hopes he’ll find me charming as well. “It was just a four star grade school. But even in the fourth grade I could tell it was overrated.”

“Uh huh.” And he goes right back to sifting.

Sigh. I should’ve known better than to try the hair trick when looking like the Bird Lady from Mary Poppins. But all I’m hoping for is simply a sliver of reciprocation. Some sort of subliminal acknowledgement that I’m cute, he’s cute and it’s pretty tragic that we both have significant others at the moment. Is that so wrong? A little harmless flirtation…

You’re pathetic.<

Lord, don’t you think ow tow that? And who are you to judge, you’re me!

Obviously the more rational side.

Well, what do you suggest I have done, Ms. Know-It-All?

Here’s a thought: why don’t you quit ogling your best friend for a second and sit the hell down. Our feet are killing me.

I take another drink (and a seat) to drown her out.

Ooo, dizzy.

“Tada,” Luke exclaims, somehow unenthusiastically. He flicks the on-button and brings forth a vivid picture of despair and destruction in Iraq. Well, call me a drunken American but I’m happy nonetheless.

“Great!” I hop and wiggle into the squishy cushions. “You fixed it.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the picture gets a little scrambled. Damn nuisance, really. Can we change this?”

“Ah, but Luke, you know what the answer to all your problems is, don’t cha?”

“A Budd Light?” he mocks, taking a seat to the right of me and forking over the remote.

“Pfft.” I bring a free hand to my chest, taken aback. “As if I can’t handle the real deal? Come on now, Butch. You know better than that.”

“You’re changing the subject. And don’t call me Butch.”

“Right, right. The answer to all life’s problems is…” I raise my drink to the air and pause belatedly, awaiting his annoyance. Wait for it, wait for it…

“Lorelai!”

Victory dancing ensues.

“Your very own ultra high-tech satellite dish, fully equipped with crystal clear pixels as signaled from our brainy alien adversaries residing in planets far, far away.”

I grin at him expectedly, urging him to distinguish the dynamic spirit that is Lorelai. How could anyone not love me? I’m freaking adorable, dammit!

Luke blinks. “I’m not getting a dish.”

ut tut then I could come over all the time and watch it.”

“I’m not getting a dish.”

“Okay…” I pat his arm playfully, lingering just long enough to get away with it. “See, I don’t think you fully grasp the value of what’s being offered on the table here—the pleasure of my company. Listen Luke, people are drawn to me from far and wide. I’m a tou att attraction in these parts.”

“I’m not getting a dish.”

“Here lies Lucas Danes, Redundancy his middle name.”

“Remind me not to leave you in charge of my funeral plot,” Luke grunts unaffectedly. Then he steals the remote in one quick flash.

“Hey!”

“You’ve lost flipping privileges,” he explains, raising it over his head and out of reach. When it becomes clear that my petulant pouting will do no good, I resort to what is only natural—I lunge.

“Do not come between me and my television programming, Luke,” I growl. And I mean it.

Luke laughs delightedly, bringing his arm even higher so that I would have to cross the couch in order to get hold of it. I’m debating doing just that and leaping over his lap when I hear the unmistakable yarn of John Madden, bane of my existence, in the background.

“No!” I gasp in horror, shielding my eyes from the astro-turfed screen. “No sports!”

“It’s just the highlights from the day.”

“NO SPORTS!” I begin to claw.

“Lorelai, ease up, would’ya? We’re going to spill all over the couch.”

“Don’t make me hurt you. I paid good money for this manicure.”

“Yeah, sure. Money you could’ve spent on, oh I doknowknow, a down payment for your super high-tech intergalactic dish?”

“That’s ultra high-tech intergalactic dish to you mister and don’t tease. I’ve had a very long hard day, or have your forgotten already?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Luke mutters, deterred at last. He lowers his arm and I snatch the clipper eagerly, cupping its savory buttons in the warmth of my greedy little hand.

But I’m so caught up in the triumph of my score, I neglect to see exactly where my other greedy little hand has landed and exactly what it is cupping.

Luke drops his beer.

All I can do is shriek as the brisk brew splashes against the two of us, staining the outside of the sofa and pooling down onto my bare ankles. Both chilled and irked by the sensation, I gape at Luke in complete bewilderment. What happened? And why does my normally rugged companion look so lobster-like all of the sudden? Then I stare at the floor. First I see the spilled booze. But in the corner of my eye I can see my hand. Resting right below Luke’s fly.

Oh, shit.

Then slow-mo gives way to ultra-sonic.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” I gasp, dropping the remote, letting go of Luke’s crotch and knocking over the bottle that was sitting between my knees in three seconds flat. “Oh, God, I’m double sorry! Triple sorry! I’ll help clean up, hold on.”

Here Lies Lorelai Gilmore, Repugnancy her middle name.

I scramble towards the kitchen in earnest, my face singing with mortification as I search for a towel. Any towel. Paper? No, Luke doesn’t have any of those. That would be un-environmentally sound. But... then where are the hand towels? I don’t see any. There used to be mountain of them in this drawer. What, did Luke have them relocated to the townhouse in Litchfield? Aggh, why does that thought make me want to tear my hair out?

“It’s okay. I got it!”

I hear Luke’s booming voice ring out from behind and turn to see him coating the doused couch with a big fluffy bath towel. His left pant leg is wet and his expression is apologetic, for whatever reason I don’t know. I’m wet too, I realize, feeling my beloved shoes grow soggy. Wait… make that Rory’s beloved shoes. Shoot.

Oh, well. At least Luke doesn’t seem to be angry about it.

But how am I supposed to face him after this? How am I to keep up the pretense of platonism after this? This horrible… terrible… friendship-altering screw-up. Freud almighty, I touched Luke! I touched him exactly where I’d been longing to touch him since he shook me up, set me straight and called me Wonder Woman. And at this point I’m so ambivalent that I’m not even sure whether or not the action was motivated by my subconscious!

Well, it sure wasn’t me who told you to do that. Pragmatism, baby.

Don’t rub it in. I’ve already hung up my ill-gotten title as Femme Fatale.

No, I meant, why aren’t you making the most of this? Laugh it up. It’s what we do best.

Brilliant. How am I supposed to “laugh it up”? This, right here, is single-handedly the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me since… since getting knocked up and having to drop out of high school!

Exactly. You’ve been through worse.

…

Ick. Leave it to me to put things in perspective. All right, much as I hate it, I’ve gotta be a big girl now.

I’ll second that.

Pasting on a wavering smile, I lean against the kitchen table’s knobby frame, combing out ways to turn an awkward situation into a big ole joke. I deftly settle on: “Great, now we reek like a couple of drunks.”

Luke nods at this, his face impossible to read in the dim lighting of the apartment.

“Might as well live up to our reps,” he replies, walking past me while shaking his head in what I can only hope is good humor. I watch him open the fridge and scrounge up some reinforcements, placing one in what will from this day forward be known as the “dirty hand”.

“Cheers,” he shrugs, clicking his bottle against mine.

“Cheers,” I smile shyly.