It’s November and that means that this 70-something goes to bed with a cold-handed husband. Not that my hands are all that warm, but his are like ice. We’ve tried warming them with a hot water bottle, but that is a) too much trouble and b) doesn’t do the job. So we do the best we can, but I have been known to jump out of my skin at his touch. Not exactly a romantic situation.
The morning is totally different. Our hands are toasty warm when we reach for each other. Yesterday, I complimented Peter on his warm hands.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been working on it all night.”