Here is a story about the night my car battery died.
It was a fall afternoon in Los Angeles, though with daylight savings, four in the afternoon felt like a summer dusk, the sky pink and hazy. My silver Prius was parked in a tiny backlot behind a restaurant in West Hollywood, off the infamous Sunset Blvd. A friend was celebrating her bridal shower at a quaint Italian restaurant in the upstairs room.
The afternoon was something from a European magazine, with multiple courses of pasta and wine and pillowy slices of tiramisu. We all walked out to our cars in a bit of a daze, heat greeting our flushed cheeks as the promise of a warm night descended on the city.
Our cars were parked like tetris pieces behind the restaurant. Imagine this: Teslas and Honda Civics mashed in with pickup trucks and my Prius. When I went to start my car, nothing happened, not the slightest flickering of lights or strain from the engine.
It’s fine, it’s fine, I waved everyone off,…
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