“Why do they sell hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight?” I ask. “It just plain don’t make sense.”

She leans over and kisses me, then leans back with a smile. “The world is full of things that don’t make sense.”

“It really is, like, why do people give flowers to people for special occasions? I mean, it’s kinda arbitrary. What’s the point?”

She nods and tucks one hand under her head. I have her other hand in mine, our fingers playing and tracing and feeling. “Actually, the history of flower giving can be traced back to ancient Greece, when it was thought that flowers were associated with the gods. And in Turkey, they assigned meanings to different flowers, which then was adopted by Victorian culture as a part of the courting ritual. In Japan, it’s called hanakotoba, where various plants are used for passwords and codes.”

“Wow. Really? You seriously know everything.” And then it’s my turn to lean over and kiss her, on the mouth, slipping my tongue inside, tasting her smart words.

This distracts both of us for a few long seconds before Mr. Happy starts taking over my brain and I pull back again.

She resumes our conversation like it wasn’t just interrupted. “I guess a plant or a flower in a pot might be better, since at least it has more of a shelf life. Why cut something that’s alive, give it to a loved one, and then they watch while it dies? It’s kinda morbid actually, if you think about it.”

“What’s your idea of the perfect gift, then?”

“Books,” she answers without hesitation.

“Any old book will do?”

“Well . . . I collect first editions.”

“Is that what the box was?” My eyes trail over to the closet, where I helped her shove the small but heavy box onto the top shelf.

She sits up and scoots to the end of the bed, then over to the closet, reaching up to grab it. She’s wearing flimsy sleep shorts, and when she reaches up, her shirt rides up and I get a peek of her pale stomach.

She has no idea how hot she is.

And I’m being a barbarian while she struggles and tugs.

Jumping up, I stand behind her and stretch overhead, pulling the box down and setting it on the foot of the bed.

She pulls the flaps open and hands me one from the top.

“Northanger Abbey,” I read the title.

“It’s not a first edition, but it’s my favorite.”

I turn it over in my hand. It’s bound in red cloth with ornate gold decorations threaded into the cover. I open it gingerly. The pages are yellow and brittle with age.

“Why is this one your favorite?”

“It was Jane Austen’s first book. Well, the first she finished for publication, although it wasn’t actually published until after her death. It’s also a comedy.”

I meet her eyes. “Is it?”

“It’s a satire of gothic novels, which were very popular during her life. And she did something unique for the period. Most of the sentimental novels of the time featured exceptionally beautiful heroines and heroes who fall madly in love with them. Jane reversed the gender stereotype by having the heroine Catherine fall for Henry first, and he isn’t immediately attracted to her but falls eventually when they get to know each other.”