“It’s cozy,” I said, dumping my own overnight bag on the sofa. “Cute.”

My bag was about an eighth the size of Colin’s. Fortunately, cocktail dresses pack small. So does the aspirational lingerie that one buys in the hopes of things like romantic weekends in Paris, that then generally sits in the back of the drawer, gently yellowing.

That, I had to admit, had been a big part of the draw of this weekend’s Paris jaunt, the chance to finally take out the That Weekend lingerie. I might not have the guts to wear it, but at least it was getting an outing.

Colin pointed at the painting on the ceiling. “Nice touch. Ouch.” He’d banged his head on the slope.

Wincing in sympathy, I put a hand to his temple, sliding my fingers through his hair. It was beginning to get long on top, like the floppy-haired teen idols of my 1980s youth. “There?”

Colin angled his head for better access. “You can keep rubbing,” he said hopefully. “A little to the left. . . .”

“I think you’ll live.” I patted him briskly on the shoulder and stepped back. “All right, BooBoo, let’s go.”

“BooBoo?” Colin looked at me quizzically as I jettisoned my in-flight reading from my bag. Because everyone needs three heavy research tomes and two novels for a forty-minute flight.

“You know. As in ‘Sit, BooBoo, sit.’” Every now and then I forget that we’re divided by a common language. I’d never felt quite so glaringly American until I started dating an Englishman. I decided to leave off the “good dog” bit. Even the most laid-back of boyfriends might take that the wrong way. “It was a commercial.”

Colin decided to let it go. He twisted the door handle, conducting an elaborate shuffle in order to open the door without trapping himself behind it or impaling himself on the side of the desk. He managed it, but only just. “Shall we get a coffee before I lose you to the archives?”