Today I asked my husband to return my library books to our branch. He is a sweetie and since he was already going there, he said yes. Then I did the unimaginable, I asked him to get me a book if he saw any that I would like. Yikes! You would think that I had asked him to get some unmentionable feminine hygiene products from the Quik Stop Market.
Normally I get my own books, but I am trying to catch up on things after wrestling with a stomach virus last week, so he was my best hope tonight for something new to read. The man loves me. I know this because he confessed later that he wanted to find me a book about as much as he wants to go and see the new Sex and the City Movie (an excursion that has him threatening self-inflicted blindness with a dull needle if asked to attend) but swallowing bravely, he agreed.
I vaguely noticed that the half hour trip was taking somewhat longer than normal, but hey, I was busy, so I didn't give it much thought. He came home with a bag full of books by Elizabeth Lowell (wow, he did listen last week when I said she was a great author) and another book that I am not sure I will like, but I will try because it has a chick flick pink cover that I am sure embarrassed him to check out.
This simple act, more than flowers or candy, convinces me that he cares. He cares enough to risk his macho reputation with our ever watchful librarian who somehow seems to remember every book we have read. What would she think of him now? Later, he confessed that he had to explain to her that these books weren't his. As final proof, he held up his current, boring non-fiction title that only he and some research student would read. For him the final insult came when our librarian told him to read the books he checked out for me. They were by a good author and it might do him some good. I guess now I owe him big time.