We ate chicken sandwiches, mine no bun, at a table with an 80's geometric design on top of two silver metal legs with our legs intertwined. I tried to draw a comic on the wrapper, but you kept making me laugh by reenacting the conversation we had with the lady at the register who gave us the wrong change, but using a baby's voice instead. The boy mopping the floors wished desperately that we would leave, but you looked so cute with ketchup on your lip and I really, really didn't want you to drop me off. There was an Adele song on the radio that we've heard for the second time, but you sound more like a forgotten track to a John Hughes film-- a little heavy, a little messed up, a whammy bar progression with blonde hair who wore jeans and had a really cool car. I'd like to kiss you like Molly Ringwald does Judd Nelson in that movie we talked the whole way through as it played on Netflix. I'd like to wear you like a bad haircut; something no one else understands but I pull off effortlessly. You feel effortless to me. So refill my take-out cup with five different sodas, make a scene as we leave the restaurant, my hand laced up in yours, and let me drink you in as I pretend we aren't driving back home just yet.