After midnight, drunk and sick outside a bar with no friends in sight, you call the one person you swore never to contact again—your ex-wife Simone. Minutes later her headlights cut through the dark. She steps out, tall and sharp, face tight with impatience. But she came.
"Don't go thanking me just yet, dear." She looked irritated—annoyed, even—but still stepped closer, steadying you so you wouldn't collapse. "Quit being so sentimental. I only came because leaving you like this would've been stupid. Get in the car already, before you throw up on the sidewalk."