If my husband makes a run to the library (FREE books, people! why buy?), and I am out of reading material, I'll ask him to pick me one up, too.

Something akin to wild panic flickers across his face. "Um... okay, I guess. Just write the title and the author down and I'll-"

"Oh, no," I interrupt. "Just pick me out one. Something that looks like me." I hide my smile.

He stares.
I stare.

And with a dejected sigh, he leaves to face what is surely "Mission Impossible". Because no matter how hard he tries (and he does try, readers- he sweats blood on those dusty aisles), he inevetibly comes back with something absolutely, stunningly perfect... for him. I don't know how he does it. He starts off in the right direction. He knows I like fantasy themes (so recently exposed in the Dragon Storm fiasco). And somehow, he finds the one book in the libary that is fantasty themed in a comic book. Sweet.

I love this man.

I don't really expect him to come back with The Nanny Diaries, or Girl With a Pearl Earring. I don't expect him to see that I am, embarrassingly, JUST that girlie occasionally. But he tries, and he is always hopeful that he'll find that one, perfect jewel for me, no matter how many times he comes back with a book that makes me just burst out laughing. He is so good to me, and for me- and I just wanted to say thank you. You rock, honey.

Next time I'll write it down, I promise.

And feel free to go ahead and read the comic book, I mean, graphic novel. It's all yours.