“Swank.” That’s what she said when she dropped the check at the table. I was drinking my fourth beer, so my mind wasn’t all there but somewhere else and the word “swank” didn’t register.

And then it hit me. In the parking lot. And I turned back toward the restaurant, thinking I’d go back in, and, you know, thank her. But then I saw her. About ten paces from the front door, nearing a lone Camaro in the lot, under a bright pole light.

“Nice ride,” I said, nearing her car. “It’s swank.”

She smiled. It was dim in the lot, but not too dim for me to see. She smiled.

“Do you like tacos?” I asked.

“Who doesn’t?” she said.