I cannot recount here 41 years of always getting along and you making every exception in the world for me that you would not make for others ( I think you picked that up from dad). So instead, the description of a weekend in Montreal might illustrate aptly. Two perfect French bistro meals, always seated at the counter, with cocktails, wine, and dashing, attentive, flirty waiters. Six perfect chocolates from Chloe's: cardamom, figue et balsamic, orange, basil, and two ginger. One lovely shiny chic perfect trench coat. The Cuban exhibit. A small perfect European hotel on Saint Denis. But mostly this, over breakfast:
me: what are you listening to these days?
you: Hawksley Workman
me: me too!
And that is perfect.