So anyway, at about 7:30 that night I went out to my old Honda Accord and started driving with no particular destination in mind. I turned at a whim, or if the light was red but I could take a right.
It should come as no surprise that at 7:59:59 I pulled up in front of an old two-story Colonial house. It looked like it had seen a few better days, but was still fundamentally sturdy. The few missing shingles or the odd loose shutter gave it an air of mussed preoccupation, like someone who forgot to comb her hair because she was too busy doing more important things.
And Jackie was standing at the curb, waiting. She looked great—except that she’d forgotten to comb her hair. “Hi!” she said. “You’re a second early.”
“I know,” I said, “but at the thought of seeing you, I just couldn’t keep my foot off the gas.”
She grinned. “Aw, that’s sweet!” She slid into the passenger seat, then closed her eyes, leaned back, and took a deep breath. “Nice car. It feels loved. Let’s go.”
I chuckled, and let up on the brake.
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