I met Dani on a Tinder date at a pub. She was stunning—fun, charming, and possessed a smile that made me completely forget my surroundings. I was so smitten, in fact, that when I went to the bar to get our ciders, I walked straight back to the table without paying. The bartender had to chase me down, but eventually, I settled the tab and settled into what felt like the start of something special.
I managed to secure a second date at a lovely restaurant in the city. On a rainy evening, I picked her up in my trusty Toyota Corolla. We were driving along, chatting and laughing, when the interior of the car suddenly experienced a violent, liquid explosion.
A deafening BANG echoed from under the passenger seat, followed by a mist of what smelled suspiciously like high-potency cider drenching the entire cabin—and specifically, drenching Dani.
"What the hell was that!?" I shouted, pulling over in a panic.
As it turns out, I had gone grocery shopping over a month prior. A one-litre carton of apple juice had escaped the bag and rolled under the passenger seat, where it had spent four weeks quietly fermenting in the dark. It hadn't just turned into cider; it had turned into a pressurized biological bomb. The rainy-day humidity was apparently the final trigger it needed to detonate.
Dani sat there, dripping with fermented sediment, the car smelling like a brewery's floor. I braced myself for the end of the relationship before it had even begun. Instead, she looked at her soaked rain jacket, looked at my horrified face, and started to laugh. She laughed until she couldn't breathe.
We dated for over a year after that. I learned two very important things from that night: always check under the seats after a grocery run, and hang onto a woman who can find the humor in being hit by a fruit-juice grenade.
