P.S.I.

“P.S.I. Honey.” I stab a green bean and wave the fork in Rob’s face. “Means pounds per square inch and you follow the guidelines on the sticker in the door frame.” 

“No,” he says, equally intense, “I bought bigger tires for your car so you go by the PSI rating on the tire.”

The tic is back, I’ve eaten the green bean, and I’m thinking of pricking his fingers with the fork. “No Rob, you don’t, you go by the sticker.” He opens his mouth but I cut him off. “Thirty two pounds, Rob. Thirty. Two. Pounds.”

“Bigger tires, more air.” He shovels in a bite of bbq pork.

“Uh huh. You remember what happened when you used the high pressure washer to clean the inside of my last car?” I flashback to Rob standing in the back of the van, water cascading out the open doors, and wince.

He watches my expression and shrugs. “The interior was filthy.” 

“You ruined the electrical system.” Aware my voice is rising, I grab the glass of ice tea and take a sip only to glance up and catch Rob smiling.

“So.” He chuckles. “Want me to check your tires?”