Adam just left for a quick work trip to Paris, so naturally I reminded him that the little free time he has could be spent looking for a gift for me. I don't actually care if I get a gift, but last winter, he went to Brazil, spending a non-working weekend there while a blizzard raged here—leading the pug to go on a poop strike—and when he called to check on us, I joked that he had better come home with a gift. Instead, he came home with a bathing suit and a shirt for himself ("I spent too much," he said. "There was nothing there for you") and a book. It was a coffee-table book devoted to some artist I had never heard of. I noticed what appeared to be a law firm's name on the back cover. "Oh, they gave it to us. But I thought you'd like it." You can imagine how that went over. "I had to throw away magazines to make room for it in my bag!" Yep.
A couple weeks later, Adam and I went to dinner at a nearby restaurant, and our waiter, who we know well by now, asked how Brazil was—and whether Adam had brought me home a gift. "A book!" he said, laughing. As the night went on, we could hear him saying "A book! A booooooooook!" whenever he'd make eye contact from across the room.
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