"Hey, I liked that shirt," Hopper protests, but he's smiling, and he flicks the cigarette into the sand ashtray sitting a distance from the door. Then he takes Joyce's hand and leads her into the restaurant.

He'd made a reservation, properly, like he knows he ought to. Joyce deserves that much. The restaurant isn't Enzo's, it's better than that, and the table they've given him is one of the nicer ones, a booth, a little private, but with a nice view out the window.