“I wouldn’t lie about a cricket,” she heard herself saying to Quimby who insisted he couldn’t hear it over the phone. “And I haven’t been drinking, I’m not ready to have sex with you yet, and crickets are not good luck when you’re living with one.” Quimby decided to go over because she was lovely, and she liked the Indianapolis 500. When he arrived, it took four minutes to make any sound. In the meantime, he watched her through her nightgown, the curve of her hips calling him as she gave the cat water. He felt he should be honest and told her, “Crickets are difficult to kill, and you may have to wait for it to die.” “Then why are you here?” she asked. Once again, to be honest, he said, “You like car racing.” She asked, “That’s it? My only redeeming trait?” “There’s the matter of your build, also. And your black hair is down to your waist. That is an unexpected bonus. I might have waited months for the hair if I hadn’t driven over.” She smiled at his honesty. They stood staring at one another. It was 2am as she made two mugs of coffee, saying, “So who’s your bet for the Indy?” Quimby removed his jacket and took a seat as the cricket that almost drove a wedge between them decided to serenade.