John Wordsmith climbed into the passenger seat of a black Spyder GT. “Nice car,” he said, grinning. “You’ve changed, Anput. Mid-life crisis? Sports cars and purple socks?”

The goddess glared at him. “You know quite well that immortals have no mid-life crisis.” She paused, looked away, a subtle grin creeping across her face. “I just felt like updating my image, that’s all. Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it, Annie. You’re the sexiest woman I know, even without the sports cars and fancy socks.” John saw her cheeks flush, and laughed. “Are you blushing? You are! I’ve never seen you blush!”

“Oh, shut up” Anput scolded, then quickly leaned in for a passionate kiss. Moments later, she bounced back, smoothed her dress, and said “Where to?”

“No way, I chose last time.”

“Oh, fine.” She winked, then said “How about Fogo de Chão?”

“Alright, but you’re paying! No way I can afford that on my salary.”

“Deal.”

The GT’s engine roared as it sped away from the bar, shortly replaced by two cruisers and an ambulance.