We were exchanging text messages, while you were on a mad dash to the airport for your weekend getaway.

(I have an anal-retentive punctuality habit you're probably secretly terrified of, and you have this optimistic misguided generosity in time estimation which I found strangely endearing.)

I messaged that I wished ridiculously that I had taken your picture before you left.
And you, sweet you, took a picture of yourself on your mobile phone and sent it right back.

"Did that work?" you messaged back. "You know how much I hate getting my pic taken."

I know, because I do, too.

Ok, enough. Better stop before people start keeling over on their keyboards.