Part 2.

"I love you."

"I love you, too. How 'bout dinner tomorrow?"

"Your dad already asked me."

"Something just doesn't feel right about competing with my dad for dates."

"If it makes you feel any better, I won't kiss him."

"Aww, thanks."

"Sure." They both laughed. "Good night, Lorelai."

Lorelai hung up with Jason and looked at the time. Rory was still not back. It seems to be the case that in the moment after you've hung up with your boyfriend and before your daughter returns, being alone in the house suddenly becomes lonely. Of course, one is never really lonely with a bucket of chicken. When the secret came out in the open in Stars Hollow that Krusty's Fried Chicken was really just Swanson boxed chicken, the famous chicken lost many an indignant patron who refused to pay money eating out for what they already had in their refrigerator freezers. The Gilmores, however, had no problem buying Krusty's Fried Swanson Chicken. They loved Swanson chicken. They loved eating Swanson boxed chicken, not heating it up. Lorelai, for one, would gladly be Mrs. Swanson so long as she did not have to heat the meals at the Swanson household. She imagined that this made her less marriageable. She would need to marry a man who would not mind cooking the meals. Or doing the dishes. Still, she wanted a man's man. Not someone who would go about the house with a feather-duster and apron. Someone who could assemble an exercise bicycle if she were ever crazy enough to get one. Someone to clean her rain gutters. She'd need the handyman and housewife wrapped in one. But what would she bring into the marriage then? She imagined her beautiful, charming self. Okay. She was willing to admit if she ever married this dream figure, he would be getting the short end of the stick. That was the good thing about Jason. Not that she was crazy enough to already be considering marriage, but she was certainly old enough. Jason was a man of the world. He was a diner at restaurants, a hirer of repairmen and assemblers. Jason believed in the modern, capitalist empire of the digital era, the epoch of the automatic dishwasher, of working mothers and stay-at-home fathers, of his and her bathrooms rather than towels, the reign of the equalized households. Gender was absolved of its roles and could take its sole and proper purpose in the bedroom. Yes, marriage with Jason would be no problem at all. They would both work during the day in their own separate professions and play at night together. And then go off to sleep in their own separate bedrooms. Okay, there would be some problems. The real problem was that as much as she loved the idea of creating a modern household with Jason, there was something in her that yearned for the traditional. It was probably the result of being so long in a small town, untraditional in its own sense of tradition.

She imagined herself in her perfect marriage. She would wake up in the morning in her cozy, warm house to the sound of a loud grumble waking her up to get her coffee and breakfast. Her eyes would open to the dent and wrinkles marking the former presence that shared the bed with her. She would yawn and stretch and get up. On her way to the bathroom, the delightfully intoxicating smell of fresh coffee would drift from the kitchen and play with her nostrils. She would take her time showering and brushing her teeth and doing her hair because he would fret over keeping breakfast warm and just knowing that would amuse her. When she would finally make it to the kitchen she would say obnoxiously,

"How long does a gal have to wait around here for some breakfast?"

"Good thing not as long as the breakfast had to wait for you," he would say, or some such thing. "You know, some people work on Saturdays."

"Yes, I have heard of that breed of masochists."

"Well, I have to go. Don't forget to pick that stuff up by Andrew and call Gypsy about my truck," he would say as he'd get ready to leave. Then he'd pause and politely add, "Please."

"Sure thing," she would say casually through a mouthful of pancakes.

"All right. I love you."

He would kiss her good-bye quickly on the lips, licking the residue syrup on his.

"I love you, too."

"Bye."

"Bye, Luke."

And he would be out the door.

But wait, she thought. Luke?