It’s 7:30 a.m. when HH comes sprinting up the stairs with chattering teeth.
“Brrrrr it’s COLD in this house!”
Anyone who has ever visited this pile of bricks knows full well it is not cold. Ever. This place is like an oven year round, and the heaters are running at least 8 months out of the year. But HH, sadly, has a core temperature roughly on par with your average hairy alligator.
He is, of course, way cuter.
“It is NOT cold,” I reply, slitting open my left eye and noting his post-shower T-shirt and shorts. No wonder he’s cold. I pull back the covers. “Hop in and warm up, then.”
He slithers in beside me, Popsicle toes and all.
“Why aren’t you wearing your bathrobe, you big goofball? It’s December, for heaven’s sake!”
He gives a petulant sniff. “Because you didn’t tell me to.”
I am pretty sure he can hear my eyes rolling in the dark.
“You never take care of me,” he says in a sort of man-flu kind of way. He is clearly abused and broken, tossed aside and mistreated. Forgotten. Cast aside like yesterday’s jam.
I laugh, because in spite of my superheated core, I have a super cold heart.
“Here,” I say, sliding to the edge of the bed and hanging on by three stripes of the sheet, “have my spot. It’s nice and warm.”
HH pours himself into the volcanic sliver of memory foam formerly inhabited by his menopausal wife. He is toasty warm within 30 seconds, and sighs contentedly.
“I reckon you’ll live,” I say.
Silence. Then, “I think it’s too early to call it, baby.” he says, sighing and burying his wet head into my pillow.
Poor hairy alligator husband. God knows I adore him, Popsicle toes and all.
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