“I’m guessing—five years—she’s going to get really pissed,” Go continued. “So I hope you got her a really good present.”
“On the to-do list.”
“What’s the, like, symbol, for five years? Paper?”
“Paper is first year,” I said. At the end of Year One’s unexpectedly wrenching treasure hunt, Amy presented me with a set of posh stationery, my initials embossed at the top, the paper so creamy I expected my fingers to come away moist. In return, I’d presented my wife with a bright red dime-store paper kite, picturing the park, picnics, warm summer gusts. Neither of us liked our presents; we’d each have preferred the other’s. It was a reverse O. Henry.
“Silver?” guessed Go. “Bronze? Scrimshaw? Help me out.”
“Wood,” I said. “There’s no romantic present for wood.”