He lingered in the background of my shot like a totem to new-age nineties mediocrity. Dressed in the fabrics of a mid-2000s middle school counselor, The Guy continued to blather on his phone while casting sidelong glances that suggested the whole thing was a ruse for his repressed social dysfunctions. After several agonizing minutes we made eye contact so awkward a Scandinavian would be proud. Satisfied with the exchange of inscrutable social status, he moved on out of the frame.

I had approached this candy red beauty with the same sheepish guilt that pervades my attempts at online dating. A few quirks drew my furtive glances, but I foolishly moved on after only a few minutes. Moments later, the friendly owner tracked me down and asked if I wanted to take a closer look. I instantly accepted and was immediately drawn down into the rabbit hole that was this Renault 17.