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Whoever said less is more wasn't kidding.

And if everyone went by that theory, maybe I wouldn't be staring down at a plate piled with gooey, half cooked snails. Slimed to perfection and basted with this weird cranberry sauce that looked frighteningly similar to… blood?

I should have gone vegetarian when I had the chance. All those years of burgers were catching up to me, in a sense where the ghost of past-cows-consumed was getting back at me for eating all his friends.

"Wow…" I managed to get out, smiling weakly at Dean, who was grinning proudly ear to ear. Proudly. As if to say to all the people in this big expensive French resteraunt, 'haha, I may not be garnished in pearls and thousand dollar cuff links, but I'm capable of ordering something besides free bread and water.' Which in this case is a pile of snails.

A pile of snails whose beady little eyes are staring accusingly at me, screaming 'you killed me! killed me!' in their high squeaky snail voices. The free bread and water is looking pretty good right now.

Then the dreaded words…

"Try some," Dean said, watching me intently, grin still fixed on his face.

Damn it. What to do? I forced a smile and stuck the tiniest piece of snail I could find onto the fork with the weird leaf design. Selected specially from the large variety of forks placed before me at the moment. Salad forks, vegetable forks… soup forks?

And bringing the snail to my mouth, I was dimly aware of my whole life flashing before my eyes. And a few couples nearby glancing at me sympathetically.

French fry. French fry. Pretend it's French fry. A nice, very cooked, very not slimy—Oh god have mercy that's definitely not a French fry.

As I struggled to zen out the wretched taste, Dean looked at me, still grinning expectantly, "Well?"

I forced the sides of my mouth to curl up, "Tastes like chicken."

If chicken means a big slimy lump swimming around in behind my teeth. Note to self: Stock up on Listerine.

He seemed satisfied.

Apparently so much he chose, at that moment, to drop down on one knee.

Oh dear lord I hope it's to pick up the fork that has currently slipped from my grasp.

He looks up, smiling and holding something out to me. I'm guessing it's not a fork. Unless a fork is a big silver engagement ring.

"Rory Gilmore, will you marry me?"

I'm staring, gaping actually, open-mouthed. Not good considering the stupid snail is still lying there half digested.

Okay Rory, this is a dream. This is a bad, bad, dream and I need to wake up. I need to pinch myself, I need to find a hammer and bash myself over the head with it, I need--

--"I need to powder my nose."

Obviously, that wasn't the reply he was expecting. Hell, that's not even the reply I was expecting.

Not wasting another second, I find myself running into the ladies room. Well, as close to running as you could get when you're wearing 3 inch stiletto heels. The price of beauty is much too high. No pun intended.

My boyfriend just asked me to marry him.

Time to call in the best friend.

Unfortunately, the words, 'Hello is Lane there' barely left my mouth before Mrs. Kim interrupted me with, 'eight o clock, call tomorrow.' And the dial tone to my ear.

Okay, then mother dearest…

Not the smartest decision. She was in the middle of… bonding. With Luke. Not a very good mental picture there. I'll be scarred forever. Which leaves me with Jess.

Dear, dear Jess. Whose words, when I told him exactly was happened, were: "God help you."

"What do I do?"

"Beats me."

"But—

"Rory, just think of it this way, do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a guy who tapes Battlebots and smells his socks before he puts them on?"

"He smells his socks before he puts them on? Wait-how is it possible that you know this while I don't?"

"Locker room. It sucks. Half the reason why I don't go to school."

"You wouldn't go to school anyway."

"Wow I can feel the love."

"Jess, what do I do?"

"You realize you're asking me, of all people, for relationship advice."

"Shush, I'm desperate. Now talk, dear Abby. Before Dean gets mad and comes after me. And he doesn't look nice mad. His head kind of turns purple for a while and then this little blue vein in his forehead starts popping out and eventually it leads to high blood pressure at age 18 and—

"Rory."

"Sorry," I say, squeezing my eyes shut, half because I'm frustrated beyond repair and half because I just realized I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. And it doesn't even have interesting floor tiles, "You're right. I can't marry this guy. I'm only 17 for god's sake. I don't even know how about his… sock fetish. how could I even think… Oh jeez. Oh jeez oh jeez oh jeez--"

"Ror, breathe."

I managed, witha moderate level of struggle, tolet out a belated breath, glad to find that the room was no longer growing fuzzy, "You should become a yoga instructor."

"And Sylvester Stallone should make a Rocky 6," he sighed, something between a half sigh and half groan actually, "Rory, I don't want to influence your decision in any way seeing everything I even so far as to get involved in turns to a big smoking pile of rubble. You love him, right?"

"I guess,"was my distacted reply- wow it's amarble toilet. Rich people.

"Well then there you go."

"I go…?"

"You two have been together for what? Two years?"

"One and a half." Whoa it's a washlet. This toilet has a washlet! What, how lazy are these people?

"So you're practically married already."

"Mmhmm…" Holy cow there's flower design on the edge of the seat. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if they used silk toilet paper worked through the backs of virgin monkeys,

"You know what? You should do it."

That got my attention, "What?"

"Get hitched. Just promise me your children won't be named after salad dressing flavors in Aisle 3."

"Ew no, I promise it'll be the citrus flavors in the gum stand," Wait, what am I saying? It should be the potato chip brands on aisle 5,"Jess I really, really don't think… "At a loss of words here. And trust me when I say that doesn't happen often, "But I'm only—

"17, yes. But Macculay Culkin got hitched at 17."

"Gee, look how well that turned out."

"I just don't want you to miss out on anything. Sitting at home alone chastising the male specimen to me over the phone while a pro-feminist movie plays out in the background isn't how I want you to end up in twenty years."

"Nope. That and annulment papers sitting on my desk," I shifted my position on the floor when my dress began to bunch around my thighs, "Hey, where will you be in twenty years?"

"Forklift at Wal-Mart."

"No, I meant in twenty years."

"… Forklift at Wal-Mart. Only then I'll have dozens of female homicides tracking me down with metal detectors for getting them pregnant."

"Ambitious, are we?"

"The ambitiousest."

The humor of the situation was quickly broken when two pearl-ridden ladies walked in, staring curiously. Whether it was because I had broken the golden rule of always going to the bathroom in pairs or because I was currently residing on the uninteresting bathroom floor tiles was beyond me.

Ending my phone call with Jess, I got up off the floor, brushing my skirt off and walking awkwardly to the sink. The glass sink. Wow. And I had previously thought the blueberry soap sitting in the kitchen soap dish was classy.

Could I get married? Scratch that, would I get married? Grandma would have a cow, no doubt. And at least I know that would make mom happy. I was thinking, with some level of amusement, of grandma's face expanding in size and doubling in color, well on it's road to chemically combusting when who should pop in but—

I sigh, "Dean, there's a reason why this is called the ladies room."

Now he sighs, "Because co-ed bathrooms aren't in right now in gold-cufflink society?"

"Close enough."

"Good to know," he slides to the floor, his backside landing roughly on the boring bathroom tiles, head in his hands and dejected look on his face, which changes rather quickly when he spots the toilet, "Is that… a flower?"

"Yup. Welcome to gold-cufflink society, Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Who?"

"Mr. Darcy." blank look. "Pride and Preujudice?" still blank. "Jane Austen?" blank blank blank. "Forget it."

"Okay," he replies slowly. I find myself plopping down right next to him. Contemplating the situation at hand. And whether or not silk toilet paper is more flammable than normal toilet paper.

He speaks first, "Should we try this again?"

I look at him strangely, "You mean the sitting down thing?"

The question is more or less answered when he pulls out the ring, "Rory Gilmore, will you marry me?"

Here we go again.

My mind wandered back to my conversation with Jess. Then mentally slapped myself for thinking about another guy when my boyfriend was proposing. And then wandered back to Jess again.

'Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a guy who tapes Battlebots and smells his socks before he puts them on?'

Hmm…. Good point there, Jess.

I looked over at Dean, fully prepared to say no. It was then when I realized my mistake. When preparing to say no to dejected boyfriend, do not look at the dejected boyfriend, who will be sitting there miserably on the boring bathroom floor beside the gold-lined toilet, dejected look on his face, having blown his entire life's saving as a bagboy on an expensive dinner that was more expensive than dinner. Afterwhich proposing, only to have your plan backfire. Not only backfire, but downright run him over, leaving tire marks on the only suit he owns. Marry him or not, you've got to feel sorry for him.

Nevertheless, I'm still going to say no. I was completely planning to say no.

Until who's voice should appear in my head but Jess'.

"I don't want to influence your decision in any way."

Haha. Influence.

"…Seeing everything I even so far as to get involved in turns to a big smoking pile of rubble."

Damn right it does.

"You love him, right?"

…Yes.

"Well there you go."

I go…?

"You two have been together for what, two years? You're practically married already."

Good point there, Jess-inside-my-head-who's-much-more-talkative-than-the-real-Jess.

I'm breathing again. Which I take is a good thing.

"Yes," I tell Dean.

… What did I just say?

Yes.

… Damn it.

A/N: Ironically, going back to the part where Jess says with his usual dose of sarcasm, 'Yeah, and Sylvester Stallone shoulder make a Rocky 6,' dear Sylvester really is actually making a Rocky 6. And another Rambo movie. And Jess is going to be in it. Both of them. Not as Jess, of course. But as Rocky Jr. I think.