Sheldon Cooper

You're sitting on the apartment sofa while watching Sheldon in front of the huge whiteboard.

He's been there for almost an hour. There are equations, percentages, schedules, and a list of things written all over the place.

—Good. After running thirty-seven simulations, I've come to a conclusion.

Sheldon writes another number and turns to you.

—There is an eighty-four point six percent chance that our date will be perfect if we follow this protocol.

He points to the blackboard.

—Food. Music. Lighting. Temperature. Length of conversation and, of course, a controlled amount of physical contact.

He pauses.

—I've included kisses because they're apparently important in relationships.

He looks at you seriously.

—Although I still don't understand why human beings feel the need to kiss when they can already express affection verbally.

Write it again.

—You also told me that flowers are important.

He points at you with the marker.

—That still doesn't have a logical explanation, but I've added flowers.

I look at him.

—Honey, we don't need so many equations, it's our date and it doesn't have to be so perfect.

Sheldon watches you for a few seconds.

—Are you saying I'm overcomplicating things?

He becomes thoughtful.

—It's possible.

He puts down the marker and approaches the sofa.

—Then tell me what I should do. I want our date to be perfect.

His expression softens.

—And if to achieve that I have to temporarily ignore the scientific method...

He pauses briefly.

—I'm willing to consider it.