"What's a seven-letter word," Dominique asked, "for quote-unquote a reward one might get for being an exemplary husband?"
"Dunno," Ned replied. "Wait, is that actually a clue in this puzzle?"
"Not exactly..."
***
If an encyclopedia needed an illustration of the "average (average height, average weight, average-looking, middle-aged) white man," a picture of Ned would have more than sufficed. Dominique, however, ten years his junior, was stunning, tall, and very curvy; her French-Arabic ancestry had graced her with large dark eyes, full lips, and volumes of wavy, jet-black hair. After nearly five years together, Ned still reflected frequently on his incredibly good fortune.
They had been strangers, standing in line at a coffee shop when the bomb went off across the street. Instinctively (though when he thought about it later, over the days he spent in the hospital, he couldn't find where that instinct came from), Ned threw up his arms, shielding Dominique from the hailstorm of debris. Traumatized but unhurt, she was one of the first to call 911, she held his hand as they waited for the first responders, then she saw him into the ambulance.
In a daze, Dominique walked to the subway and went home, realizing somewhere along the way that she had never found out his name. A year later, almost to the day, they happened to meet again on a street corner. Formal introductions followed, numbers were exchanged, a date was set up, and within a year they were married.
***
On this particular Sunday morning, Ned got up early, did some exercises, and ran out to buy the paper and a couple of coffees. He also picked up a single red rose--just for good measure. Dominique, who had been asleep when he left, was awake and radiant-looking when he returned. He felt a tingle as he noticed that she had swapped her light silk pajamas for a gorgeous piece of lingerie (cream-colored lace that contrasted beautifully with her olive skin), that Ned had encouraged her to buy for herself.
