DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She slipped back into her front door, leaving her purse on the bench in the entryway, sliding her coat off her arms before hanging it on the coat rack near the entrance to the living room. She undressed as she moved towards her bedroom, ready to pull on her sweats by the time she reached where they lay out on her bed as if they were waiting to envelop her into their warmth. After she changed, she pulled on some wool socks to heat her freezing feet that had been tortured and exposed to the elements in her unforgiving, however ravishing high heels.

She had just grabbed her favorite fleece throw and a bottle of water, settling down on the couch when her phone rang. She cringed a little bit—if it was her date from this evening, well—he obviously didn't take a hint. On the other hand, it could be her mother, and she moved slightly towards the edge of the seat. Then it hit her—it was probably Paris. After all, this opportunity to practice her memory repression skills had been Paris' doing. She settled back, deciding to screen her calls tonight. She let it ring twice more before giving in and lurching over to the side table where her phone was nearly ringing off the hook.

She pressed the talk button, and took a deep breath before saying anything.

"Hello?" she ventured. She realized she needed caller ID. Her mother would say that New York was making her shut off from the world, turning her into the next Thoreau. She would joke back, saying she could only hope so.

"I knew it!" came the triumphant voice on the other end.

It wasn't a voice she dreaded hearing, but that tone wasn't helping her desire to respond.

"You knew what, exactly?" she sighed, pulling the blanket back over her legs, as she moved her knees up towards to her chest.

"It's 9:15pm."

"You know, if I needed the correct time, I could just call and ask for it. Do you have a point?"

"It's a Saturday."

She rolled her eyes. She knew where this was going, but she continued to drag it out, making the final accusation as specific as possible. For some reason, she enjoyed that method of arguing.

"So?"

"So, you're at home at 9:15 on a Saturday, alone," she could practically see his finger pointed at her.

"Tristan, you don't know I'm alone," she tried to mess with him.

"You want me to believe you invited Daddy Warbucks up?"

"Oh my God! You so didn't just say that!"

"Tell me I'm wrong," he countered.

"How do you even know I had a date tonight?"

"You aren't the only one that talks to Paris."

She sank further into her couch, wishing she'd made coffee when she got in. Water wasn't going to cut it during a conversation with Tristan. They'd been talking on the phone every so often over the last two weeks, and usually doing autopsies of their failed dates. She wanted to throttle Paris, not only for making her go out with this last guy, but even more so for telling Tristan about it. She was hoping this one would pass without having to talk to him about it.

"He wasn't that old," she managed lamely.

"Where did he take you?" his laugh almost stifled as probed her for the honest details.

"That isn't important," she thought of hanging up on him, but knew he'd call back until she picked up. Unplugging her phone isn't an option—she tried that once and Lorelai had been banging on her door at 2am in a panic as a result. And in her opinion, there was no more annoying sound than a ringing phone.

"Rory," he chided in a tone that he knew she would respond to. One that urged that if she didn't tell hers, he wouldn't tell his.

"Fine. He took me to the opera and then to a cigar bar."

Laughing filled her ear. She held the phone out from her head, shaking her hair free of the French twist it had been up in as he let out his obnoxious response to her last statement. She brought it back as she heard his entertainment had been slowed to a soft giggle.

"Are you finished now?"

"Almost. How old was this guy?"

"I don't know—probably around fifty."

"Why did you go out with him?"

"Paris didn't give me much of a choice! You know how she is."

"Yes, but I, unlike you, can say no to her," he pointed out.

"I can say no to her!"

More laughing. She really hated that he felt so open to make fun of her. They weren't that close, at least, that's what she told herself. Their phone conversations weren't something she would let herself think about, look forward to, or really talk about with anyone else.

"Right, so, tell me when you ever said no to her."

"When she kissed me," she offered, trying to punish him with mental images. She knew his testosterone filled mind would take over, quieting him for a while at least.

"The—WHAT?" he exclaimed a little too loudly, causing glares from others around him. He didn't care, the images flooding his brain were too much. Surely she was just messing with him.

"I thought you talk to Paris all the time! She didn't tell you about that?" she all but purred coyly.

"You've so got to be lying. Paris is way too repressed to ever--," he started, thinking about the events that would lead to the two girls ever kissing.

"Can we get back on topic here?" she asked, trying to sound bored.

"Hmm? Uh, sure. What were we talking about?"

"God, you are such a guy," she complained.

"Why is that sounding like a bad thing?" he returned to his charming tone, one that oozed out of his mouth slowly, almost seeping through the phone lines like molasses.

"So I had a crummy date with an old guy. Other than the old guy thing, this isn't a record. As a matter of fact, I was once back home by 7:45 once."

"Wow. That's just, sad. So, is Paris crossed off your list?"

"Yep. So far, the only one left on my list is Emily, and this girl named Kate that I work with," she informed him.

"Those are the only people you still trust to set you up on dates?" he was incredulous.

"Yep. Everyone else has scarred me."

"I'm hurt. I haven't scarred you!"

"Okay, first of all, I wouldn't go that far. But are you saying you want to set me up on a date?"

"Why not? I'll set you up and you can set me up," he offered.

"So, you're saying your date didn't go well?"

"Well, she's in the bathroom, and she's been in there for about twenty minutes, so I don't have much hope for it, no."

"You're still on your date?"

"So?"

She sat upright on the couch from her slumped down position, in shock of what he was telling her. She'd had bad dates—in fact most all of her dates have been miserable experiences. But never had she been on the phone for twenty minutes during one before.

"So? You're talking to me, and you're on a date!"

"So, how about it? You set me up and I'll set you up," he said again, ignoring her ramblings about how he was reaching new lows of dating hell.

"Tristan, I don't know. I think it's a bad idea."

"Oh, come on. We both hate dating, so we of all people would be perfect at weeding out the truly reprehensible options."

"No, no—haven't you ever seen When Harry Met Sally?"

A silence came over the phone, one that lasted long enough to make her wonder if his cell batteries had died.

"Tristan?"

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to figure out what that movie could have to do with us setting each other up with dates."

"Oh, come on—the main characters set each other up with their best friends, and their dates end up running out of the date together, leaving Harry and Sally alone on the city streets afterwards, all dejected and pitiful."

"Wait, didn't they end up married?"

"Yes, the best friends got married, and they had to watch--," she rambled, a little surprised that he'd actually seen the movie as it was considered a chick flick and Tristan didn't seem the chick flick type.

"No, no, no. I mean the main characters. Didn't they end up married?"

She stopped and heard what he was saying. "Oh, yeah, they did."

He smiled, leaning back into the wooden back of the chair as he rearranged his silverware unconsciously. "So, how about it?"

"Fine. But I'm not marrying you," she added, her brows now furrowed together as her confusion grew the more she tried to think about the tone of voice he used while they talked about the movie. He had this way of making her think about every comment, coding it for any double meanings; careful to make sure he can't take anything the wrong way.

He laughed softly again, "Fine. So, I'll talk to you later about this."

"Okay. Hey, Tristan?" she said, stopping him from hanging up quite yet.

"Yeah?"

"You've really seen When Harry Met Sally?" she asked curiously.

"Good night, Rory."

She heard the dial tone meet her ear, and a smile broke over her face as she hung up and placed the phone next to her on the end table.