"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 bar-b-que pork and grins.
"Uh huh," I glare, "You do 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 for the glass of ice tea and take a sip. I glance up and catch Rob smiling.
"So," he chuckles, "want me to check your tires?"