• 1-Drama Mama
• 2-Femme Fatale
• 3-Crosstown Counterpart
• 4-Little Orphan Antsy

It’s already been ten minutes since “lights out” but I’m about as restless as Robert Downey Jr. gone cold turkey. I’ve experimented with no less than a myriad of different sleeping positions but they all seem to lead back to the very same conclusion: couches suck.

Nicole cooties or not, I should’ve taken the bed.

“Gah!” I wail, smothering my cry into a blessedly stuffed pillow.

Silly me. I presumed that passing out after a sequence of emotional mini-dramas and alcoholic beverages would come naturally to a woman my age. But suddenly I feel far from mature. This feeling… this pesky, frisky, dare I say, discontented feeling is essentially young in and of if. f. Young and stubborn.

After tossing and turning for the umpteenth time, I decide enough is enough. If I set out for the Dragonfly tomorrow with droopy eyes and haggard hair, well, that would only lend credence to Gran’s wayward assumption that I’m a washout in the making. (Not to mention I won't have the energy to deal with Michel deriding me as the second coming of Broom Hilda.)

Besides, it’s better to down a glass of milk and some sleeping pills than to lie here miserable all night, pining for Luke.

Pining for Luke?

Man, oh, man. Where’s Rory when I need her?

I slink off and around the couch peevishly, reasoning that Snoring Beauty won’t notice the slight rustle as I do so. And even if he does, tough luck! He took a bite out of my beauty sleep so he deserves no more, no less.

But as I’m tiptoeing towards the kitchen, something purely preordained kicks in. I am inordinately struck with the invariable craving for a donut—or as I like to call it, the sweet siren of glazed goodness.

And that obviously leads to mental musing on as to whether or not I should go downstairs and partake of the glazed goodness. Indulge myself.

You know, so long as I’m up.

Oof, but I better not. The night crawler that is Kirk might catch a glimpse and then I’d never hear the end of it from Luke.

…

Or what about Bootsy? And Babette? What about any of the other meddlesome townsfolk Kirk is likely to prattle too? How would it look—my ransacking the diner in the dead of the night, wearing nothing but Luke’s boxers and flannel?

Oh, but I know how it would look to them. Nearly nineteen years in Stars’ Hollow has taught me a thing or two about grapevines and provincial wildfire. Especially where Luke and I are concerned. These people are completely predisposed to jumping to the conclusions. Juicy ones. The juiciest being that we were sharing a wild night of steamy illicit sex and that I went downstairs to refuel.

Or is that solely what I’m thinking?

Envisioning…

Elaborating…

God, I need sleep.

Heaving a regretful sigh, I open he rhe refrigerator door and am appalled and aghast when in place of milk I come face to face with a carton of Soy Dream. Soy Dream?! When did I step into a John Grisham novel?

That does it. I’m getting my donut.

Frothing at the mouth and just a granola bar away from seeing red, I shove the offensively healthy container to the very back of the fridge. And then I curse when the force of it rattles Luke’s grade AA organic eggs. What, is the entire universe against me tonight? Can’t I ever catch a brake?

Glimpsing behind my back fretfully, I’m on pins, needles and tenterhooks as I await the rhythmic rumbling of the Soyman’s slumber.

… “Zzz.”

Phew. That was a close one.

“Idiot,” I whisper, wishing I could put a stop to all the unwonted idiosyncrasies. Why oh why do I insist on flailing about in each and every move I make? It’s as though I’ve been summoning up a storm of strange and there has been little headroom between the clouds.

You can say that again.

You sense it too, right? It’s like I can’t focus. I’m all over the place.

Totally. One minute you’re sniffling and sniveling—

Bawling and blubbering—

And the next you want to jump Luke’s bones. Although for me it was sort of a toss up between him and the beer.

So why not have your cake and eat it too?

Hehe. Didn’t I tell ya?

Yeah, did did. We’re nothing if not consistent. So what do I do now?

Huh-hoooh, now you want my advice? Is that it?

Please?

I’m sorry, Lorelai, but I’m afraid you’re just a few fries shy of happy meal.

Uh huh. A very horny happy meal.

…

God, we need sleep.

I mean, I need sleep. I mean… I suppose I’ll have to make due with water.

Closing the refrigerator door with every intention of hunting down some Tylenol PM, I turn in the direction of the bathroom. But then I feel a certain something, paper-thin and ably angular, skid across my toes. I look down and low and behold, there lays a mysterious envelope.

Huh. That’s funny. Almost as if it came out of thin air.

Maybe it was in the fridge and I accidentally knocked it out. By why would Luke be storing mysterious envelopes alongside his mysterious food? Wait, I think I just answered my own question.

Go on. Open it, you know you want to.

Don’t even think about it! You should respect the man’s privacy.

Please, he’s down for the punch. It’s not like he’s going to find out.

But—oh, yeah. I never thought of it that way.

And I’m unfolding the flap…

Oh. My. God.

I scan the check’s entries over and over, blinking inanely with the fear that I’m in a soy dream. Because there it is: $30,00