Last week, a car went vrooming through our neighborhood.
“Do you hear that?” Greg asked.
“Yes, it’s a car,” I said.
“It’s the same car that was in the movie we just watched,” he said.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The car in the movie ‘Somewhere,'” Greg said.
“That was a Ferrari,” I said. “You’re saying that someone in our neighborhood owns a Ferrari?”
“Yes,” Greg said.
“In our area or in our actual neighborhood?” I asked.
“In our neighborhood,” Greg said.
“I think you’re confused,” I said. “There is no way that someone in this neighborhood owns a Ferrari.”
“But you just heard it go by!” Greg insisted.
“That doesn’t prove it’s a Ferrari,” I said. “For all I know, it’s just an old car with a bad muffler.”
“But it’s not,” Greg said. “It’s a Ferrari.”
I had every reason to doubt Greg’s story because I’m more the car expert in our relationship (and I’m far from an expert). Also, we live in the sort of neighborhood where people drive minivans with school bumper stickers.
But a few days later as we hung out at our neighborhood pool, I heard that throaty roar coming toward us.
“Do you hear that,” Greg said, a smile spreading.
We turned to watch. And it was …
Greg sank into the water and cocked an eyebrow at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m feeling a little smug,” he said.