Sitting on the sofa. Reading Tolkien. She was reading Kahlil Gibran.

She rises up from lying upon my thigh and puts down the book.

Gazing intently at me with piercing eyes. "So, how would you describe me?"

Offering, "You're like my old corduroy coat."

Surprise in her features. Wondering if she'll get it.

"That ratty thing you wear all the time?"

"Yep." Touching her rosy, dimpled cheek.

"You love that coat. Comfort. Familiarity. What about passion?"

Passion? About an old coat?

"Probably not. Passionate love dies fast. I want it around a long time. Familiarity breeds contentment. You know?"

"I know."