You pop yourself into the passenger seat, close the door softly behind you because your ex used to complain about the way you’d slam everything, never cautious enough. You notice with satisfaction, though, that she slams the crap out of her own door.
She holds out a cable to you and asks if you’d like to charge your phone and DJ. If you agreed, she’d see you put your nose up on the screen to find an artist, so you shake your head. “Play me something you like. Your car, your tunes.”
“Okay, let’s get weird,” she says, and begins playing what she tells you is one of her favorite bands. You like it, and tell her so. She tilts her face towards you, smiles, and you swear you can feel the warmth of it.
When you get to the restaurant, though, you see it’s everything you’d been trying to avoid. Very dim lighting, the menus stacked with a hundred tiny options you’ll never be able to decipher.