Ned unwraps the present slowly and with care. He's probably doing it wrong, he knows, should tear through the newspaper and leave it in tattered crumpled shreds, but it's just not in his nature. Doing it this way also gives him time to savor the moment, though he can tell from the way Ginsberg's shifting his weight from foot to foot that he's closer to anxious than enthusiastic. He peels the tape away in the places where it's fastened and sets the paper aside whole.

Immediately, he covers his mouth with his hand, but it's not enough to hide the shocked smile on his face. To him, it's not stupid at all that Ginsberg made him something. In fact, it's quite the opposite. He could have just stopped at some shop, bought him a watch or a tie or something similarly nice but cold, impersonal. This, though, is different. It's a combination of, in some ways, the best of both of them: Ginsberg putting his advertising vision to work to come up with an ad for Ned's pie, which is likewise his passion.

"I love it," he says, right away and without reservation. He doesn't turn to the card right away, wants to take in every detail of the ad first. But then he does set it aside to pick up the booklet, figuring out to flip through and doing so with a bright, broad grin. The ending of the little visual story makes him laugh aloud, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. It's as if there is a balloon of happiness swelling in his chest, wonderful and full and just a touch painful.

"These are so-" he stops, admits, "I don't know what to say." In lieu of speaking, he closes the distance between them and kisses Ginsberg, eager and playful and still smiling. Once he's done that for a little way his mind finds its way to, "Thank you."