I was in a car-based relationship. We met on Valentine's Day. I was sitting in the parking lot of a Trader Joe's after buying tortilla chips and dip to take to a singles event in Houston. The hope was I'd meet someone there and immediately fall in love so that I wouldn't have to be alone on Valentine's Day. Then I started crying.

There is no real explanation for why I cried so often back then, but it was always inside my car—a red Volkswagen Golf GTI. I’d bought it after six months of living in the United States, with 20k I didn't have. Not one among my Indian uncles and aunts in the US asked, "Do you make enough money for a car payment?" I was surprised the dealership even sold it to me and began to understand that the American way was to borrow and pray.

American air was always oozing with unrealized potential. One day, I'd pay off my car, get a girlfriend, and have a million in capital gains. That's what I told myself while crying in my red Golf GTI.

My sobbing was interrupted by an unfamiliar ding on my phone. I had matched with someone on Tinder. She looked normal—the first time this had happened in my four months on the app. Usually, the only people I matched with were women who edited their pictures so much they looked like ghosts. Sometimes, there was not even a person in the picture, just an outburst of brilliant white light that revealed the contours of an energy being.

But this woman looked normal. Dasha. I sent her the first message from the Trader Joe's parking lot, a carefully crafted one-liner about something in her profile that really said I was not like the other guys and I paid attention to the little details. It said: I am curious, perhaps even sapiosexual. When she did not respond in five minutes, I was despondent and on the verge of tears again.

Then, I heard the ding once more. The sound that I now looked forward to and based my life around. She replied with a grammatically accurate sentence. She even agreed to meet me later that night.

I messaged the organizer of the singles event and told him I didn't have to put in my shift  anymore. He never replied. I drove to the downtown spot where I agreed to meet Dasha, catching every red light on my way there. The streets were empty. The red golf GTI was low to the ground and surrounded by pickup trucks. I peered at their big tires and exhaust pipes. Homeless men aggressively tried to wash my windows at every other stoplight.

My father had warned me about Eastern European women. Perhaps Dasha was trying to scam me out of money. I wouldn’t have had a problem with that if I had had any. The only asset I really owned was a futon from Walmart. It began creaking the day after it was assembled.

Dasha was wearing a blue, long-sleeved Oxford shirt and black pants when I met her. I said something about Stanley Kubrick, and she said she had watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. I told her it was one of my favorite movies even though I had fallen asleep thrice when I watched it.

This already made it the most romantic conversation I had since moving to the United States.

None of it would have been possible without my red Golf GTI. Without it, I'd have been languishing in the suburbs, eating cinnamon toast crunch and then drinking the milk left over. Dasha didn't have a car, which was perfect. My manhood could now hinge on giving her rides.

She said she liked running and I said I did too. The longest I had run was when I was chased by my neighbor's 20-pound Pomeranian. She asked me what my mile time was. I said I could run it in under six minutes. That seemed reasonable.

She said we should go running so that came to form the basis of our relationship. I would pick her up every other day and we'd drive to the park. She wore the same pink running shorts and white tank top every time—a 90s Soviet look. On our first run, I sped ahead of her to prove that I could do a six-minute mile. An eternity later, my hands were on my knees. I looked at my distance. 0.7 miles.

Dasha loped past me slowly. It was like the Rabbit and the Tortoise if the rabbit hadn’t made it. She never brought it up again, probably because of secondhand embarrassment.

Dasha lived an hour away from me. An hour and fifteen minutes in evening traffic. She never knew how far I lived. It would seem desperate—driving an hour both ways to run with a woman who had not shown the faintest sign of romantic interest. She never invited me into her home. I made up new reasons every day for being a slow runner: hangover, genetic asthma, etc. We often ran out of things to talk about in our short drive to the park.

I always took the longer route to the park. This gave me more time to talk to Dasha and also helped me avoid the two unprotected left turns I had to take otherwise. You see, I cannot take unprotected left turns. Ever since I started driving in the United States, unprotected left turns have triggered a verbal tic in me. When I accelerate past oncoming traffic from the opposite side I involuntarily yelp "I'm a little gay boy.” I have no control over this.

The first time it happened, I thought I’d misheard my own voice. But it happened again when my mom visited from India. From the passenger seat she asked me what the words meant. I told her it was a new song that I couldn’t get out of my head. The shame made it worse. I started avoiding unprotected lefts.

About this time, I also picked up a habit of drinking anything but plain water when I was thirsty. I drank several cans of a variety of beverages every day, which put a lot of pressure on my bladder. Even half a can of sparkling water made me pee like a cow. But that didn’t stop me from popping open a can of raspberry water on my drive to meet Dasha.

On that fateful day, I had already downed four cans of the good stuff. But I popped open another one on my drive. I started to feel a pressure build. Soon, I was in no state to take sharp rights or go through potholes. I just had to wait until I reached Dasha's apartment. No, we were not romantic. She had stopped hugging me after I drunkenly confessed my affection for her.

So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that when I pulled up to her house with my knees buckling and asked if I could use her restroom, she said no.

We made our way to the park in my red Golf GTI. Surely, there must be a restroom that I could use at the park. I knew I could get there quicker if I just took the two unprotected lefts.

We approached the first intersection with an unprotected left. I sped past it while gazing longingly at the left not taken. As we approached the next unprotected left, I considered my options more seriously. I could cut our journey by six minutes.

As I contemplated the turn, I lost focus of the road for a second and the red Golf GTI dipped into a gentle pothole. Dasha didn't even notice the bump, but a little pee trickled out into my running shorts.

Better to risk the turn.

I swerved left and then stopped, gently nudging the car ahead toward the middle of the intersection. Traffic from the opposite side issued up a slight hill, so I couldn't quite make out if there was a car coming or not. I pursed my lips as I got closer to making the left. I sensed a small window of opportunity as a couple of pickup trucks passed on the opposite side. No cars—I was in the clear—I could make this turn—casual.

I gently accelerated. My fingers gripped the steering wheel tight, and my toes curled inside my running shoes. Then I saw a pickup truck on track to T-bone my faithful red Golf GTI.

I pushed hard on the pedal. My tires screeched and I screamed "I'm a little gay boy!" in a high-pitched voice. Dasha looked at me. That look released the pressure in my bladder. I was relieved. No more car-based relationships. No more passengers in my red Golf GTI. I drive around by myself and take every unprotected left without a care in the world.