But my secret special kickass chivalry is tainted, obviously, by obviousness. And it’s the obvious thing that it’s not going to happen. Because there might be a suburb of Seattle where a girl says, “Oh my god! Flowers? You are chivalrous, Joe,” and then I win and she doesn’t care that Keith has one of those all-terrain things that will come in so handy when the world ends and we need a nine-thousand-cylinder engine to drive over the hordes of bloodthirsty mutants crawling all over the video-game landscape, or maybe there’s a suburb of Seattle where Lila wouldn’t care whether or not her chivalrous suitor was wearing a fucking WELCOME TO THE BIG SHOW! button on a red why-the-hell-is-it-fireproof Sovereign Cinemaplex vest which is sort of blocking the signals of that hungry heart of mine, and Lila and I drive around this other suburb of Seattle in a car I take care of myself on weekends and tell each other a big bag of secrets we’ve been hiding underneath the beds our parents bought us, tossing and turning over its poky burlap creases and staring out of the window screens at a spooky blue moon that is beaming down secret New York bus tickets of a grown-up love future, and then someplace where the sun is setting or rising she takes her top off, but I don’t live in that suburb of Seattle. I live on Mercer Island, and here we just tear tickets and wait to watch her go home.
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