“That photographer of Quinn’s has a villa in Pew, apparently. We’re all going for a couple weeks. Or was it Po? Pu? Pow?” Brittany is talking more to herself than Claude at this point.

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I asked, “How much for a loaf of bread?” and got a fifteen minute lecture and no bread.

—Brittany S. Pierce, on moving to France

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Santana sits and watches Brittany spend half an hour explaining what various different parts are for in an engine. Quinn often interrupts to ask questions when she requires more detailed information or the definition of a term. The whole thing is very animated and lively. Brittany assures Quinn that she can teach her to drive if she would like to learn.

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The only thing more traumatic for Rachel than seeing Brittany pressing Santana up against the wall of Santana’s dressing room was seeing Santana with her head between Brittany’s thighs a couple days later; isn’t that right, Rachel?

—Quinn Fabray, in the most awkward interview I, Brad Ellis, have ever conducted.

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Sam is useless after Mercedes leaves for France. He just frets and sighs and wipes down the bar needlessly with a rag. Santana doesn’t know what to do. Mercedes sent him a telegram from New York, but that seems to have made him worse. Santana tries to imagine what could possibly cheer her up if Brittany went to France and she stayed here, but concludes that nothing would.

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The Chicago Winter seems endless to Santana, who curls up in Brittany’s arms at every opportunity. Brittany holds tight and assures her Spring will be here soon. Santana doesn’t want to think of Spring, either. Mercedes may leave in the Spring, and Sam will go wherever Mercedes goes. Having friends still seems new to Santana; she doesn’t want them to go now that she’s found them. Brittany is the only warmth left.

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Brittany is tracing patterns with the tips of her fingers into the small of Santana’s back when Santana asks.

“Do you think you’d be interested in living here with me?”

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Mr. Ellis,

Found tape of me singing with Gil Evans’ Orchestra. If you can spare the time, swing by and have a listen.

—Santana Lopez

PS- I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, Brad…

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Mercedes knocks softly before entering Santana’s room at Blaine’s Friday morning. Santana is already up; she’s been awake since before dawn. Santana sits, immaculately dressed in a gorgeous black satin dress Mercedes has never seen before, hair perfectly pinned, with a flawlessly made-up face. Her black satin shoes match the dress perfectly, and her red lips part slightly as she adjusts the black lace shawl on her shoulders. Santana is the picture of mourning.

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