Psst, Isabel . . .
I look up in irritation: an email is trying to get my attention. Dagnab it. What do They want now?
. . . do you need a last-minute gift?
Aw. Embarrassment-at-being-caught-being-impatient-with-another’s-good-intention (I think German has a word for that) disarms my irritation. Embarrassment and something deeper. I can’t say that I need a last-minute gift, exactly — after all, I have a houseful of extra stuff I’m trying to get rid of — but against all reason I’d love to have a gift, last-minute or otherwise. I wonder how it knew?