Pulp Fiction is Sam’s absolute favorite Tarantino movie. Without exaggerating, I would say he’s probably seen it ten-thousand times, and those are just the times we’ve watched it together.

He snorts. “You probably weren’t even born yet when that movie came out.”

It bothers me that she doesn’t contradict him on that point. “It’s still a great movie. Samuel L. Jackson? Classic.” She grins. “Do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?”

A smile twitches at his lips. “A Royale with Cheese.”

“Right,” she giggles. “Because of the metric system.”

And then they spend the rest of the drive quoting lines from Pulp Fiction. I’ve seen it almost as much as Sam, so I could get in on the fun, but because I’m in the back, it’s difficult. By the end, Sam’s smile has become genuine. When he pulls over at the curb next to her building, he seems disappointed that the fun has come to an end.

“So are you seeing the new Tarantino movie this weekend?” Monica asks.

“Yep,” Sam says, looking at me as if for confirmation. I nod.

There’s a long silence, and for a scary second, I think Sam might invite her to come along. Not that it would be awful, but… well, I don’t want her to come along. In any case, he doesn’t offer, and Monica gets out of the car without further fanfare.

Once Monica is out of the car, I unbuckle myself and get into the front seat next to Sam. He gives me a funny look. “You didn’t have to move,” he says.

“I didn’t want to sit in the back like you’re my driver.”

“Why not? It could be one of those roleplaying games where I’m a taxi driver and you’re the mysterious, beautiful woman I picked up at the airport.”

I laugh. “Is that what you want?”

“Actually, I mostly just want to get home so we can… you know, celebrate.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sam starts up the car and turns onto Third Avenue, heading back to our condo. I look at his profile in the light of the moon. He’s clean-shaven now, which means he shaved just before we went out. For me.

“Hey,” I say, “didn’t you think it was weird Monica sat up in front?”

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. A little.”

“I mean, she was the passenger. She should have sat in the back.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Sam doesn’t seem particularly upset about it, so maybe it’s better not to push the issue. Yes, it was weird. I’m sure Shelley would agree with me. But Sam doesn’t get bothered by stuff like that. And anyway, it looks like he had lots of fun talking about Pulp Fiction with Monica.