He handed me a large box, slathered in newspaper and clear wrapping tape, a look in his eyes I'd never seen in any of the four years I'd known him—sly, knowing, but innocent and curious.

"Merry Christmas," were the only words he offered in explanation.

I exaggerated my naturally-loud, frustrated sigh at the sight of the box, whose contents, I knew from repeated past experiences, I would be ten minutes freeing from the layers upon layers of paper and plastic and tape my dear boyfriend customarily found funny to wrap things in.

"I hate you," I sneered jocosely, and set off to work, recalling the first time he'd ever pulled this exhausting trick on me:  the Christmas the year before we got together, he had bought me a lava lamp, upon whose opening I positively squealed, because I'd wanted one for years before that.

"I love you too," he shot back, sarcastically for this occasion, though I knew he meant it.  There was a bit of an odd tone to his voice just then, an odd little catch.  A note of dread.

He watched me intently as I began to deconstruct the layers.  Me, not the mess I was making on the floor with the layers successfully removed.  Not even cracking a smile at my exasperation at discovering yet another layer beneath each one I thought would surely be the last.

As layer upon layer of wrapping was peeled away, the box's initial size was being whittled down, making it smaller and smaller, and my suspicions that it contained nothing at all as a joke were deepening.  Maybe just a slip of paper with the words he'd just said written on it, I thought.

Upon finally achieving the satisfaction of punching through the last layer, I stopped for a moment.  My heart began to pound, harder than it ever had when I'd ripped open that lava lamp.  My hands shook as I lifted the needle from the haystack.

A ring box.

I opened it.

Inside was the little note.  But it didn't say Merry Christmas or I love you.  It said:

Can I keep you?

I answered with an unspoken, physical yes.