into the driver’s side and Shelly sits down and closes her door.
“Dad says don’t touch the radio. He has satellite.” She opens the glove compartment and pulls out two pairs of sunglasses. One is blue mirrored and the other is plain black. “Choose.”
I try them each on. “Which one makes me look more like an international man of mystery?”
She laughs and I try them on again. “The mirrored ones.”
She stashes the black pair back in the glove compartment and I start the car. As I back down the driveway, I notice the tank is full.
“You’re lucky my parents like you,” she says. “Dad only lets Josh drive this car.”
“He doesn’t know we took it the other day?”
“No,” she says. “And he never will.”
It’s a little intimidating driving such a tiny car on the freeway, like being a tiny person in a land of giants, but I quickly find my pace and feel comfortable. I glance over and notice Shelly has donned a pink-and-green scarf over her hair. “Very retro chic,” I say.
“And practical.”
We don’t talk much on the way to Columbus. The wind and the traffic make it too loud to do anything but shout, but I enjoy the feel of the car, and the adventure of heading into an unknown. I’ve driven to Columbus many times, but never in a sports car with a girl.
As we approach the outskirts of Columbus, I shout, “Where are we going?”
“Since it’s your birthday I’ll let you choose,” she says. “If you like Italian, we could go to Buca di Beppo. That’s in Worthington. Good food, but no patio.”
“And my other choice?”
“Lindey’s in German Village. We can eat outside there.”
“Lindey’s,” I say.
I head straight into the city on I-70, get off at Fourth Street, and follow the signs toward German Village, just south of downtown. We drive around to find a parking spot a couple blocks up.
“Should we put the top up and lock it?” I ask.
“There’s nothing in it but a pair of sunglasses,” she says. She stashes the scarf in her purse and checks her look in the rearview mirror. I go around and hold the door for her. “Look at you being the gentleman.”
“Given it’s my birthday, I’m demonstrating my increased maturity.” As we walk, I say, “So what made you want to see me today?”
She shrugs. “I had nothing better to do.”
“Gee, thanks, I think.”
We stand at the entrance of the restaurant and Shelly points to a sign that reads Free Valet Parking.
“That’s okay,” I say. “The walk felt nice.”
There are still a couple tables available outdoors. We settle into our seats and a waiter brings us water glasses and a basket of bread. I order iced tea and Shelly orders a glass of white wine with some Italian-sounding name.
I open my menu and see an array of food I’d never be able to afford. Some of the terms I recognize from French class.
“I could order a burger,” I say, “but I don’t want to be
gauche
.”
“Order something unique, something you have never eaten before. You eat burgers all the time.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I’m getting quiche,” she says. The waiter sets down our beverages. “It’s your birthday. Live it up. Get something decadent.”
I order the quiche as well.
“Sorry,” I say, after the waiter walks away. “I’m not very imaginative when it comes to food. I was raised on canned pork and beans and corn dogs. The most exotic thing I’ve ever eaten is Gouda cheese in French class.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a homeless hick.”
My face reddens. I take a gulp of tea.
“I meant that as a compliment,” she says. “You don’t seem like an ignoramus like so many of the guys at school. You have untapped potential.”
“If this were a story,” I say, “I’m not sure if you’d be the hero or the villain.”
“That’s what I mean,” she says. “Your sentences are grammatically correct. Most of those guys at school say crap like, ‘where you at?’ and ‘I seen that.’ You
“Dad says don’t touch the radio. He has satellite.” She opens the glove compartment and pulls out two pairs of sunglasses. One is blue mirrored and the other is plain black. “Choose.”
I try them each on. “Which one makes me look more like an international man of mystery?”
She laughs and I try them on again. “The mirrored ones.”
She stashes the black pair back in the glove compartment and I start the car. As I back down the driveway, I notice the tank is full.
“You’re lucky my parents like you,” she says. “Dad only lets Josh drive this car.”
“He doesn’t know we took it the other day?”
“No,” she says. “And he never will.”
It’s a little intimidating driving such a tiny car on the freeway, like being a tiny person in a land of giants, but I quickly find my pace and feel comfortable. I glance over and notice Shelly has donned a pink-and-green scarf over her hair. “Very retro chic,” I say.
“And practical.”
We don’t talk much on the way to Columbus. The wind and the traffic make it too loud to do anything but shout, but I enjoy the feel of the car, and the adventure of heading into an unknown. I’ve driven to Columbus many times, but never in a sports car with a girl.
As we approach the outskirts of Columbus, I shout, “Where are we going?”
“Since it’s your birthday I’ll let you choose,” she says. “If you like Italian, we could go to Buca di Beppo. That’s in Worthington. Good food, but no patio.”
“And my other choice?”
“Lindey’s in German Village. We can eat outside there.”
“Lindey’s,” I say.
I head straight into the city on I-70, get off at Fourth Street, and follow the signs toward German Village, just south of downtown. We drive around to find a parking spot a couple blocks up.
“Should we put the top up and lock it?” I ask.
“There’s nothing in it but a pair of sunglasses,” she says. She stashes the scarf in her purse and checks her look in the rearview mirror. I go around and hold the door for her. “Look at you being the gentleman.”
“Given it’s my birthday, I’m demonstrating my increased maturity.” As we walk, I say, “So what made you want to see me today?”
She shrugs. “I had nothing better to do.”
“Gee, thanks, I think.”
We stand at the entrance of the restaurant and Shelly points to a sign that reads Free Valet Parking.
“That’s okay,” I say. “The walk felt nice.”
There are still a couple tables available outdoors. We settle into our seats and a waiter brings us water glasses and a basket of bread. I order iced tea and Shelly orders a glass of white wine with some Italian-sounding name.
I open my menu and see an array of food I’d never be able to afford. Some of the terms I recognize from French class.
“I could order a burger,” I say, “but I don’t want to be
gauche
.”
“Order something unique, something you have never eaten before. You eat burgers all the time.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I’m getting quiche,” she says. The waiter sets down our beverages. “It’s your birthday. Live it up. Get something decadent.”
I order the quiche as well.
“Sorry,” I say, after the waiter walks away. “I’m not very imaginative when it comes to food. I was raised on canned pork and beans and corn dogs. The most exotic thing I’ve ever eaten is Gouda cheese in French class.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a homeless hick.”
My face reddens. I take a gulp of tea.
“I meant that as a compliment,” she says. “You don’t seem like an ignoramus like so many of the guys at school. You have untapped potential.”
“If this were a story,” I say, “I’m not sure if you’d be the hero or the villain.”
“That’s what I mean,” she says. “Your sentences are grammatically correct. Most of those guys at school say crap like, ‘where you at?’ and ‘I seen that.’ You
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