We stayed in the car, because to go inside would imply a commitment to conversation, and to head out on a walk would simply be too isolating. We didn't want to go but we wanted to stay poised on the verge of leaving, with the dashboard lights and Flogging Molly for company. Glimpses of my life came out in flippant remarks. He was strangely, naively surprised, as if he'd never before heard of such things. Maybe he hadn't. He traced the warm red lights of the radio and I copied him, wishing I could take his hand and trace its lines instead. He wouldn't have understood, simple and good as he was, what I wanted. I wanted to savor and celebrate, caress and enjoy- but never love- him. I said I loved complicated people, loved passion and confusion and pain. You're in luck, he said, I'm complicated.