I visit Richard once a week. Each time, I bring him a nice bottle of wine; after all, I pride myself on being a gracious guest. He accepts it with a saccharine smile, beckons me inside, and within minutes, I see it standing forgotten on the dusty curio table in his foyer. As he shows me to the door with the same smile at the end of the night, my eyes fall on the bottle and I exclaim, Oh, what a vintage! My lips flutter as I explain the quality of the aroma, the purity of the cultivar, and the richness of the soil. I recount the days I spent in the French countryside, exploring the vineyards of Burgundy and the surrounding hamlets.

Richard’s eyes glisten with strange conviction. He gushes, It’s one of my most prized, but I’d like you to take it. I put up my hands and tell him No, no, I couldn’t possibly, it means too much to you, but he won’t have it. Enjoy it, my friend, he says, enjoy it and consider it my gift to you for all you have given me. Touched, I oblige. Of course, it will be returning next week.