The three of us made it home from our sushi run almost six hours after the moment when I first said “Hey, why don’t we go get sushi now?”
The last ten minutes was the most harrowing; we’d opted to cheat and call a cab from Sushi House, which took us to the train station one pint nine miles away, as the Google Maps crawler crawls. From there we went to the subway station ten minutes from home, where a decidedly non-poly-friendly car awaited.
During the sushi, the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, and David seldom wears anything save for shorts and sandals. This made leaving him at the station while I ran dayo home, then returning to pick him up a decidedly less than attractive option. So, we all three squeezed into the car, dayo on David’s lap (to both of their delight, judging from the sounds), and we prayed for no intervention from meddlesome law enforcement types on the drive home.
No meddlesome law enforcement intervention presented itself.