"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.