What we do.

We start out riding bikes around, around, around the panhandle as we try to decide what to do with the night, one of us always yelling over our shoulder at the other, barely able to hear each other. After brief mention of the beach (it's something I always suggest), we decide fuck the bikes, throw them in the back of my truck, head to Twin Peaks. You drive -- I get performance anxiety driving with other people in the car, plus I want to see what you look like driving stick shift. Halfway up, we're both scared because the fog is too thick to see, and actually it's my dad's car so we turn around and say let's go to the beach after all. Might as well take advantage of a warmish night? Armed with a six pack, you humor me and ride to the beach like I suggested in the first place, lock up, carry the bottles to the wake, shoes off, pants rolled up. I hate getting my rolled up pants wet, but I hide my discomfort because it seems so excitingly carefree not to mind. I could go for a tall can, I think, and some cigarettes, so we walk back to Safeway and stop to make out somewhere on the way. Not the sickeningly romantic beach, but somewhere lame, like the Safeway parking lot or the windmill where guys blow each other as soon as the sun sets. I make a stupid joke and you laugh and tell me you think I'm pretty. I say, of course it's always nice to hear that and now do I have to admit I'm just a romantic at heart?