My boss at the computer company found an Alfa-Romeo to buy in Petaluma, about 40 miles north of San Francisco. It wasn't a Spider (2-seater convertible), just a Giulia. Not even a Giulia Super (that with the 2 liter and side draft Weber carbs), but a 160Ti. Still, it was a fine, fine car, which ran better than the GTV he later purchased.
One of the things about buying a second car is that you need a driver to drive the second car back. Now this driver is an accomplice of sorts; Tom had been in a sufficient number of relationships to know that one does not bring a disapproving partner up to pick up a spare car. Plus, I suppose, it is a guy thing.
So we are sitting in Ferrari's cafe near the intersection of 101 and Penngrove Road. As the waitress waits on someone else, Tom leans over the booth table and says to me "Isn't our waitress something? She is hot!" I turn to glance casually at our server, who is admittedly buxom but only OK-cute; mostly she is young -- even for a 23 year old like me. "I suppose she looks all right, but she's like sixteen years old," to which Tom replies, memorably, "The older you get, the harder it is to tell the difference between young and beautiful."