Christina begins to tap her fingers idly on the door panel of the car, drumming an irregular staccato rhythm with her nails. You glance over, careful not to take your eyes off the road for longer than a moment, and see the familiar look in her eyes once again: she no longer remembers why she's in the car with you.

"Are you looking forward to our aquarium date, Christina?" you say, casually providing her with the information she's too embarrassed to ask for. Christina's anterograde amnesia means that this kind of forgetfulness happens constantly; she usually manages to figure out where she is and what's going on from context clues, but you don't mind helping her out when something is clearly bothering her.

The sound of tapping stops, and the car is silent for a long moment before Christina replies, sounding chipper and upbeat. "Of course, it feels like forever since we went to the aquarium together! I'm really excited."

You smile weakly, and refrain from pointing out that you went just last week.

It's another fifteen minutes of driving, and ten minutes of waiting in line, before you and Christina finally enter the busy aquarium. It's a local landmark, filled with a wide variety of fascinating exhibits, and you and Christina would easily be able to spend the entire day here and not see the same thing twice. Of course, that's not likely to happen—Christina's amnesia means that she won't remember what you've already visited, and so you'll almost certainly double back at some point—but you're used to that by now.

You take a deep breath and force your brightest smile. "So, where do you want to go first?" you ask. You don't have anything specific planned; you're happy to visit whatever Christina's interested in.

Christina looks down at the map of the aquarium in her hands, her face screwed up in concentration. "Let's start with the