A Book For Me

 

There is a bookshop in South Africa that Paul and I use to visit when we can. Paul sits for a cappuccino, while I travel through shelves and shelves of colorful titles.

 

As usually, before Christmas the offer is vast, so vast that five minutes after I was back with six books on my hands. Placing them in front of Paul, I suggested:

 

“Could you check how interesting these books are? There are so many new titles that I cannot pay attention to them all.”

 

Later, when I returned for tea, he handed to me the previous books, keeping just one of them.

 

“I want to give you this one as a present. It is the perfect book for you!” he revealed.

 

The book he was saving in his hand held the word Mozambique in its title, the reason I had selected it between others new arrivals. I thought it to be a political or social study of some kind, but it turned out to be a biography with other components interesting me.

 

“Why did you had to tell me that? You could buy it without me knowing!” I complained.

 

For me the main attraction of a gift is the surprise element. However, I was decided to be comprehensive.

 

“I accept. Now, as I know the content, at least you have to wrap it differently. You have to surprise me with that!” I negotiated.

 

A little less than a month later, Paul was shopping for the perfect wrap with me by his side.

 

“It’s not fair! What kind of present is this one?”

 

“I still have something left” he calmly released.

 

“What?” I asked with admiration.

 

“Words” he simply delivered.

 

That’s how I now own a new book belonging to my favorites ever, with Paul’s logic and concise handwritten dedicatory.

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