Day Thirteen and Counting…

How do Luke & Lorelai cope with a stay-at-home order? Humor, and definitely strong T in my opinion, but I'm a prude.

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AN: Yes, this is a serious situation and a very unsettling time. It's April of the year 2020. A scary novel virus has entered the human population. We're all uncertain of what happens next, and some of us have loved ones at extra-high risk, as I do. (My husband of over 25 years, to be precise. Lymphoma. Heck of a time to have to worry about his bone marrow activity.)

That said? I hope you enjoy this fit of whimsy, inspired by my nine days (and 81 to go) under mandatory stay-home order. Oh, and the fact I am slowly being driven insane by stress and far too much knowledge of immunology…

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Lorelai Gilmore-Danes (or was it Gilmore? Or Danes? She had yet to really make up her mind on that issue) stormed onto the front porch of her long-time beloved home.

"What," she snarled at her husband-lover-bestie-nemesis, "is that noise?!"

Luke Danes glanced up and stopped the noise long enough to scratch at a stubble not even Lorelai could find sexy at this point. "I'm learning to play a dulcimer."

"What," hissed Lorelai, "is a dulcimer?"

Luke held up the offending object. "It's a four-stringed, lute-like instrument, common in many areas of rural America. Geez."

Lorelai's sapphire eyes drilled into Luke's. "Strings. So I could strangle you with them, right?"

"You're thinking of piano wire," said Luke calmly, and returned to the instrument in his lap.

(Yes, that was dirty, admitted Lorelai, but really, at this stage, she didn't care about his instrument. That had been days one through eight of the mandatory stay-home order, and even their libido needed a rest now that they were at that age. Love was forever, but lust could cause sore knees.)

Luke tipped his head to one side, regarding both a book of instructions and the dulcimer. "And I'm keeping my promise. No more musical experimentation in the house."

Lorelai opened her mouth to explain that she had meant no more music ever thank you very much unless it came off a CD, and was shocked to hear Babette's scratchy voice erupt.

"Luke! Hon! What's going on over there! Are you all right?"

Clutching a disgruntled tortoiseshell cat, Babette stood at the edge of their property, lipstick a particularly odd shade of vermilion.

"Hi, Babette!" called Lorelai, waving with forced cheer, and a strained smile. "How are you? How's Morey?"

"We're fine, doll, we're fine! I just heard a godawful noise…"

"Told you," muttered Lorelai to Luke under her breath.

"And had to see if you're calling for help," panted Babette, as the cat sent Lorelai a look clearly saying it required help.

"No, Luke's learning a musical instrument," answered Lorelai at loud volume, but fair was fair. Social distance for most people was two to four meters, but Luke had mandated ten, which came to precisely 393.701 inches, or 10.94 yards (rounding up the final digit as she'd been taught long ago and far away, in a galaxy called Hartford), and that was nearly eleven yards, not two to four meters.

Not that Lorelai had done the math. No. Never. She did not "do" math. Really. She ran a successful business because she couldn't do math. Really.

In point of fact, she had a better profit margin than Luke these days. Or, well, the old days. The pre-pandemic-end-of-the-world-as-they-knew-it (Lorelai disdained the Latin phrase status quo ante as far too brief for her irritation) days. Millennials didn't eat at diners, but they loved quaint inns to get away from the kiddos for a weekend. Free wi-fi at the diner came at a cost, despite Luke's determination to let few if any people use it. He had no return business from the hipsters and "punks", as he called them, because nobody wanted to go back if there was no free wi-fi and no drinks ending in -ccino.

Or -o, actually.

Face aching from her determinedly happy expression, Lorelai waved Babette home, then whipped around to glare at Luke.

"Why are you learning to play a dulcimer? Where did you even get one?"

"Everyone does delivery now," shrugged Luke.

"Not you," snapped Lorelai. "Great business op, Luke love-of-my-life. Go open the diner for curbside take-out. You cook, diner stays germ-free…"

Luke somehow grew dark and cold despite the lovely spring sunshine. "Every person I come within ten meters of…"

"Oh my God, it's four…"

"Sneezes and coughs can travel…"

"It's allergy season! Kirk has allergies! You closed the diner because Kirk sneezed tree pollen!" ranted Lorelai, and then drew a deep breath. Luke appreciated the view, she noticed, but then, she'd had the Clash t-shirt since the 1980s and it was very near being a veil with a faint imprint of a London skyline. "Okay. Okay. We're adults. We're sane." She folded her arms and tapped her foot. "Or more sane than my mother, who, by the way, has decided it's zombie apocalypse and is being investigated for hoarding, just in case you're interested."

Luke finally stood, stretching his sore back. He set down the dulcimer on the porch swing and gave Lorelai a quick hug. "Ah geez. When did you hear that?"

"Ten minutes before you started murdering the lute-thing. Paris Zoomed me."

"Paris what-whatted you?"

Leading her husband inside, and glaring at him for mocking, Lorelai tried a new breathing technique. It involved holding her breath until she had run out of names to call her husband.

"Lorelai? What is it? Your mother can afford a lawyer, and she's probably hoarding caviar and champagne."

"Actually, no, she's hoarding gloves and face masks and zinc."

Luke did an appropriate double-take, eyebrows crawling high on his forehead. "Zinc? No studies conclusively prove that it…"

Teeth clenched, Lorelai retorted, "I know, Mr. Science! I know! You and April have educated me! I know! Talk to Emily! Okay? Okay! My point, which I lost, was that you said no more music in this household. That porch is this household! And who the hell delivers a dulcimer?"

"The music shop, and I said no more music in the house."

With a brisk shake of her head, Lorelai snorted an indignant, "Porch. Attached. House."

Luke flung his flannel shirt across the living room, which was suspiciously immaculate and clear of knick-knacks. (Days eight through ten had given Lorelai a serious Marie Kondo fit.) "Hey, I just wanted to sing. Expand my horizons. With your movies."

"You are not the Phantom, and you are not Gene Kelly, and it wasn't raining, and I can't get anything done around here!" shouted Lorelai in return, folding up the flannel shirt as fastidiously as Emily Gilmore could have wished. "Go open the damn diner and tell people to pick up their food at the curb! Go! Shoo! Begone!"

"No!" yelled Luke, face reddening. "I will not risk our health and longevity because you have the patience of a toddler!"

"Your longevity is at risk if you stay home all day!"

"You're the one who loves people and talking and all that crap! Go to your inn!"

"It's being sterilized!"

"And whose fault is that?"

"One maid got sick, Luke, one maid! One maid! And we didn't know she was sick till she called, and you are the one who hired the weirdos in the haz-mat suits!"

"Well, you should've screened your employees! Then the inn would be open!"

"How was I going to screen them? I don't have a tricorder!"

"Don't mock Star Trek!"

The pair stood inches apart, chests heaving, faces flushed, eyes glittering.

"So," said Luke after a long pause. "What happened to the vegetables?"

"I took up fruit and vegetable carving," said Lorelai proudly.

"And the cucumber… Uh…"

"Check out the turnips."

Luke did.

He swallowed.

"So," he said again. "Want to get sore knees?"

"Hell yes," said Lorelai, and tackled him to the couch.

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Stay safe, all.