The rental car the insurance company gave me after the accident was great— wireless Bluetooth speaker, heated seats. What was different was that the car horn wasn’t a one-note beep. It went, “I SAY! I SAY! I SAY!” like Foghorn Leghorn. I’d never felt more in charge of the roads. It gave me the guts to ask out one of my coworkers, a quiet girl with big loud hair, loud glasses, loud laugh. She wore this Tweety Bird denim jacket and used a Road Runner mousepad at her desk. We started carpooling, then I was staying at her apartment. Every major and minor Looney Tunes character had a poster on her bedroom walls. It was freaky that they watched us, but she was really into it, so I was, too. One time I let her finger my hole so deep I busted out a Mel Blanc scream. She said it was the hottest thing she’d ever heard. I’d say it kept our relationship alive for five more weeks. By then I’d returned the rental— after my hunk of junk came back, the insurance company sent a letter apologizing for the unusually defective car horn. On weekday mornings, she’d step into my passenger seat and I’d yell, “I SAY! I SAY! I SAY!” and she’d giggle and kiss me but she still broke up with me, me standing outside with a box of my clothes in the night rain, like a movie. There was nothing I could’ve done better, she told me in her kitchen as I spaced out on a poster of Wile E. Coyote, hovering off the edge of a cliff, staring back at me. She needed time to figure herself out. We were just taking a break. A commercial break, I said without thinking, but that just made her burst into tears. I realized we’d never watched the cartoons together, only talked about them like gospel. I didn’t even know Looney Tunes like that. I couldn’t believe this was what was on my mind. I murmured about having never taken her seriously and she said, no, that’s what I like about you the most. And Wile E. Coyote looked at me like, dude, you fucking asshole. And Road Runner had this big smile like, see ya at work tomorrow!