After work yesterday, M and I were talking dinner options. I wanted to take her to my favorite Chinese restaurant, China Dynasty, but according to the internet they were closed, possibly permanently. Instead, we decide to go to the Italian restaurant down the street. We arrive to find a darkened façade: closed. Totally fine. Not rattled, we pivot once more and head to a local tavern that has a blackened mahi-mahi dish I love. We pull into their parking lot and can tell the joint is crowded. Just absolutely hoppin’ and boppin’. As we cross the lot to go inside, I tell M, “If there’s too long a wait, we can always go home, order Chipotle, and watch something funny we’ve seen before, like, I dunno, GHOSTBUSTERS.”
M’s pace slows. We come to a standstill on the grimy blacktop. We exchange a look, a waggling of eyebrows, a smile.
An hour later, we are back home, perched on the edge of the air mattress, TV trays in front of us. (The TV is in the basement, which at present has very little furniture, hence the air mattress.) I am destroying a barbacoa bowl, while on the glowing screen, Peter Venkman is hitting on the Ghostbusters’ first client.
LAST WATCHED: GHOSTBUSTERS (obviously)
FORECAST: Going to the Hazel House to start packing.