I just stared at her, until she looked at me as if I was supposed to answer. After being together for fifteen years, you think I'd be more in tune with her prompts.
"You know," I said at last, "if you polled a thousand men, and asked them what they needed more of, I don't think a single one of them would reply, 'how about some texture?'"
"You don't think we need more texture?"
"Nobody needs more texture," I replied.
There we stood, the two of us, arguing about texture while, behind us on the couch, our daughter flipped pages back and forth, rubbing the glossy finish with her fingers, as happy as happy can be.
And American Hallmark moment in the weirdest of ways.