Every decision I’ve ever made in life has brought me to this moment, sidling up to the perfect spot in the vast splendor of the Costco parking lot—the one that’s five inches away from your Hyundai Sonata SE. Who wouldn’t want to get as close as possible to one of these bad boys? Destiny brought me to this remote fringe of blacktop to get a near-microscopic view of a kick-ass car and meet my new best friend. It’s totally worth the half-mile walk to Costco.

To hell with all the people who don’t believe that the sleek and sporty Sonata is a million times better than any SUV. They can stay in their parking spots near the entrance, while we ride side-by-side out here, like cowboys on an asphalt prairie. I parked right up on your SE and literally leapt with joy from my Honda Accord, a respected four-door until the Sonata came along. Now, the Accord might as well be an SUV.

Uh-oh, looks like my enthusiastic exit left a small door-ding.

In hindsight, maybe I should have parked five inches from the passenger side, so you wouldn’t have to scootch over the large-capacity center console with dual beverage holders. But, I imagine you’ll clear it like an Olympic gymnast navigating a pommel horse.

Destiny made sure I ran out of clean Jockeys today so when I came for another fifty-pack, I’d park next to you. Going to get the briefs now, so I’m back in time to run into you—haha, not literally—probably just as you’re squeezing in under that sexy but practical leather-wrapped steering wheel.

Phew, I’m winded. We’re farther out than I originally thought. I guess you’re still in Costco but it’s okay, I’ll wait. That’s what you do for a friend who appreciates a sedan that holds its Kelley Blue Book value. You should come over tonight for corn dogs. We’ll play Dungeons and Dragons, watch Sonata test drives on YouTube, and drink some—oh crap—I’m out of brewskies.

Heading back in. Leaving a note, so you know to wait for me. I’ll just tuck it right here under the windshield wiper and—oopsie—not good. Better it came off now than during a rainstorm, right? Setting the wiper blade on top of my note, right here on the roof. Back in a jiff.

I brought a cart for the trip back since I got two 24-packs of Corona and a 3-pound bag of limes. Super pumped about tonight. Nothing better than sharing a beer with my BFF while we play D&D, eat deep-fried cornmeal-coated wieners-on-a-stick, and slam Car and Driver for their insulting description of the Sonata’s handling as “adequately responsive.”

Surprise, I also got a roll of waterproof Gorilla tape to reattach the wiper blade. You’re welcome, my friend. There’s no corral, so I’m just putting the cart right over here. And—shucks—I didn’t notice the incline. Kind of impressive how the cart bounced off the passenger door. It’s like the Sonata stiff-armed it and said, “Not today, asshole.”

Back to Costco to see if they have primer or a Sharpie permanent marker in a matching color. Something between terracotta and clotted blood.

I’m excited to patch up this awesome sedan. I bought a sweet little battery-powered belt sander to smooth out the mini-divot the cart created. And—okey dokey—that’s really just making it worse. I’ll apply extra Rustoleum to fill in those new gouges. No worries, this color will look great. Can’t wait for you to see it. And—shit—the wind carried overspray onto the windshield. It was beautiful. Like when thousands of birds fly together in a swirling murmuration, but with aerosolized paint.

Honestly, buddy, you should have been here to help. If you’d done your part and held up a pair of my new tighty whities while I sprayed, the windshield wouldn’t be speckled. I’m exhausted and don’t feel like going back for turpentine.

I’ll go get the Coronas chilling. Call when you get here and I’ll give you directions. Leaving my digits under the good-as-new wiper and—dammit—the note took flight. I feel like that’s destiny saying this just isn’t our time.

Later, my Sonata-Bro.