I was in the bathroom, commenting through the door that I didn’t have time for a bikini wax while in New York.  "Do you care?" I asked. 
"Crushed," he said. 
"Really?  I mean you really care if, what it looks like?"  No answer.  "Hello?"
"Can you please flush and come out here if you want to have a conversation?" 

When I joined The Suitor in the living room he was holding a gucci box that had been slightly crushed.  "Crushed," he repeated as he held the box toward me with both hands and a sad expression. 
"What’s this!?" I squealed.  "A surprise!  A good surprise, but for what?"

"To the future mother of my children, happy Mother’s Day."  It was written on a card, affixed to a gucci box.  No, we’re not pregnant yet.  The other night, at our friends’ wedding, I had to borrow an evening clutch from my friend, as I didn’t own one.  "I saw you carrying Amy’s bag, and I want you to have everything you’ve ever wanted," he said.  The bag is beautiful.  Thoughtful.  It’s the kind of thing that has always happened to my friends, never to me.  He, in that moment, became everything I ever wished for.  It wasn’t about the logo on the bag.  It was about the surprise, the gesture, the knowing.  I love him.