So I was ambling around the living room, trying to think of what to do. Still buzzed from the NY Times thing. Not really interested in reading–a couple of books on hand, but none grabbing me intensely. I have a hard time watching TV and NOT doing something else–TV requires half a brain at most, and I need a book or something simultaneous. Sketched already for awhile, not really feeling it. Won Bard’s Tale last week. Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Wandered the living room a bit more. Examined the cat. Was examined by the cat. Continued to wander.

“James,” I said at last, “I think I need a game.”

And James, wonderful, patient, indulgent James, James, who’s games are his religion, art form, and great love*, looked at me with his eyes aglow and leapt to his feet and said “I’ll get you a game right now! I know the one! You’ll love it!”

“But–it’s after nine–”

“We’ll rent it!”

“You don’t have to–” I was talking to air. James was long gone. I think it went from a vague longing for a game to James leaping into the car in under two minutes, and that included a minute worth of cleaning cat vomit out of a shoe. I think James takes a certain pride in finding games that I enjoy–I am a finicky player at best. He’s not a demonstrative man, for the most part, (I’m not terribly so myself, mind you) but if I ever doubted that he loves me, the care he puts into locating games that I will enjoy would prove it in a heartbeat. Particularly since half the time, they’re games he doesn’t play himself.

He’s a nut, but I love ‘im.

*I don’t ask him if he loves me more than games, and he doesn’t ask me if I love him more than painting. Of such silent agreements are successful relationships made.