Clint was assigned the job of driving into town to pick up a movie from Late Night Video. He’d been there plenty of times for his own reasons — definitely not because of the XXX section or the room downstairs — so he knew the place like the back of his hand.

The bell above the door gave a tired jingle as he stepped inside, the smell of old carpet and plastic cases hitting him like déjà vu. Rows of VHS tapes stretched down the aisles, their faded covers and peeling stickers giving off the kind of charm you only got from a place that didn’t care about keeping up appearances.

He didn’t even need to read the signs to find himself in the — gag — romance section. His wife, Grace, was in one of her moods again, feeling sentimental and wanting a “nice” movie night. Clint had argued, of course — suggested Lethal Weapon or Predator — but she wasn’t having it. So here he was, standing in front of rows and rows of romance VHS tapes.

He squinted at a few titles, muttering to himself as he scanned the shelves. Something about moonlight, something about hearts — and then one about a princess bride or whatever. That seemed close enough to romantic. He grabbed it, swiped the dust off the case, and made his way to the counter. The clerk barely looked up from his magazine — Fangoria, naturally — as Clint dropped the cassette and a couple of dollar bills onto the counter.