You don’t mind, do you? She asks, her fork hovering over my cake. Mind if I get a ride home? She asks, mouth full. My date walks by. Hey hot stuff! She shouts. Wanna dance? He glances my way. That cool? She says, not really asking. I mind their coats and wallets. When the song ends, she gestures for my chair. Bad knee, she says. You’re so nice, she says. Isn’t she nice? It isn’t until we’ve carried her up the steps to her apartment, until her door has shut behind her, that I remember her wallet. She won’t mind.