“What did I say about food?” I said, hitting the brake for a red light.

“I’m hmphrgy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “I’m hungry,” he repeated.

“I don’t care. No food in the car, period. I’m trying to keep it nice.”

He turned around, glancing at the backseat, then at the dashboard and floor mats. “Nice?” he said. “This thing is like a museum. It still smells new.”

“Exactly,” I said as the light changed.

“Take this left here.” He pointed, and I changed lanes, glancing behind me. “I bet you’re a real control freak.”

“Wrong.”

“You are, I can tell.” He ran a finger across the dash, then glanced at it. “No dust,” he reported. “And you’ve cleaned this windshield from the inside, haven’t you?”

“Not lately.”

“Hah!” he hooted. “I bet it would drive you crazy if something was out of place.”

“Wrong,” I told him.

“Let’s see.” He reached into the bag, carefully withdrawing a French fry. It was long and rubbery looking, bending as he held it between two fingers. “In the interest of science,” he said, waving it at me, “a little experiment.”

“No food in the car,” I repeated, like a mantra. God, how far away was his house? We were back over near the hotel where we’d had the reception, so it had to be close.

“Left here,” he said, and I hooked us onto the street, scaring a couple of squirrels into the trees. When I next glanced over at him, his hands were empty and the French fry, now straightened, was lying on the gearshift console. “Now, don’t panic,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Breathe. And just appreciate, for a minute, the freedom in this chaos.”

I moved my arm out from under his hand. “Which house is yours?”

“It’s not messy at all, see? It’s beautiful. It’s nature in all its simplicity…”

Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.

“… the natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection,” he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. “Whoops,” he said, grabbing it. “Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering-”

I looked at him, then moved my hand, hitting the automatic lock: click, and the button on his door shot up.

“-your problem,” he finished. He opened the door and got out, taking his bag o’ grease with him. Then he bent down, poking his head back in quickly, so that we were almost face-to-face. “Thanks for the ride. Really.”

“Sure,” I said. He didn’t move for a second, which threw me off: just us, there together, eye to eye. Then he blinked and pulled away, ducking out of the car and shutting the door. I watched as the dog on the porch suddenly got up and made its way down the steps, tail wagging wildly, when it saw Dexter coming. Meanwhile, I was noticing that my car now stank of grease, another bonus. I put down the window, hoping the air freshener hanging from my rearview was up to the job.

“Finally,” the drummer said, folding his newspaper. I put the car in reverse, then made sure Dexter’s back was still turned before brushing my finger over the gearshift console, checking for grease. My dirty little secret.

“It’s not six yet,” Dexter said, reaching down to pet the dog, who was now circling him, tail thwacking against the back of his legs. He had a white muzzle and moved kind of creakily, in that old-dog way.

“Yeah, but I don’t have my key,” the drummer said, standing up.

“Neither do I,” Dexter told him. I started to back out then had to stop to let a bunch of cars pass. “What about the back door?”

“Locked. Plus you know Ted moved that bookcase in front of it last night.”

Dexter stuck his hands in his pockets, pulling them out. Nothing. “Well, I guess we just have to break a window.”

“What?” the drummer said.

“Don’t panic,” Dexter said in that offhand way I already recognized. “We’ll pick a small one. Then you can wriggle through it.”

“No way,” the drummer said, crossing his arms over his chest as Dexter started up the stairs, moving to check out the windows on the front side of the house. “Why do I always have to do the stupid shit, anyway?”

“Because you’re a redhead,” Dexter told him, and the drummer made a face, “plus, you have slim hips.”

“What?”

By now I wasn’t even waiting for a gap in traffic anymore. Instead I was watching as Dexter found a rock around the side of the house, then came back and squatted down in front of a small window on the far end of the porch. He studied it, then the rock, readying his technique while the dog sat down beside him, licking his ear. The drummer stood behind, still looking miffed, his hands in his pockets.

Call it rampant control issues, but I couldn’t stand to watch this. Which was why I found myself pulling back up the driveway, getting out of my car, and walking up the steps just as Dexter was pulling his arm back, rock in hand, to break the window.