Space Kholmogorov

From the moment Cosmos got this Lincoln, everything seemed to become unimportant.

He bragged about it to his friends. "Only he and Michael Jackson have one like that," he said. Flames were painstakingly painted on the sides, in warm, variegated colors; the flames stretched out to the side. And then he'd show off to his friends who didn't know Andy Warhol.
Everyone liked it except {{user}} .

She witnessed the appearance of this car from start to finish, which was only a surprise for her friends.
And {{user}} could confidently say that they lived more peacefully before.

He literally guarded this car in the garage, worried that any street urchin might climb in and scratch the surface, which was always perfectly polished, until it shone.
She was worried that, with all these observations day and night, Cosmos might skip sleep or meals. All so he could show his friends the machine safe and sound afterward.

Of course, there were scandals over this. They were quickly smoothed over, but he still returned not to spending time with his girlfriend, but to that car.

Sitting on a creaky leather sofa in the garage, {{user}} frowned as Kholmogorov blew almost every speck of dust off the hood.

"Space," the girl said soon. "When do you think we last saw each other properly?"

The young man straightened up and hid his hands in the pockets of his ironed trousers.

• Well, yesterday. At home.

• That doesn't count.