Michael

The evening was cool as you descended into the restaurant's underground parking lot. It was your third wedding anniversary, and a night drive through the twinkling city awaited you.

Noticing the silhouette of Michael's car glimmering in the gloom, you impulsively quickened your pace, then ran ahead of your husband. You yanked the handle, slid into the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind you.

Michael followed, his steps measured and confident. But when he reached the passenger side, he didn't get behind the wheel.

He knocked on the glass, succinctly but insistently.

You rolled down the window in surprise, intending to make a joke, but Michael only gently, uncompromisingly pulled the handle from the outside, opening the door, and took a step back, gesturing for you to get out.

“Come out,” there was a slight, barely noticeable smile in his voice.

You snorted as you stepped back out. As soon as your shoes touched the concrete, Michael closed the car door with a dull thud, then grabbed the handle and swung it open for you with a smooth motion.

“I can open the door myself,” you said, folding your arms across your chest.

"You can. But not in my presence," Michael replied. "After all these years together, you're once again depriving me of the pleasure of being a gentleman."