Cold Feet Official

He looked up. His eyes were red, his nose running from the cold. He looked nothing like the man who’d proposed on a frozen pond. He looked better. He looked real.

“I stopped asking you to put on your socks,” she whispered. “I just assumed you didn’t care if I was cold anymore.” Cold Feet

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Yeah, I can do that.” He looked up

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he shifted onto his knees on the cold porch, took her bare foot in his hands—her feet were freezing, she realized, she hadn’t even noticed—and slowly, carefully, pulled the old wool sock over her toes, her arch, her heel. He did the same with the other foot. His fingers were clumsy. His knuckles were white with cold. He looked better

When did we stop taking pictures of each other?

Emma stared at the socks. Then at him. Then at the door to the house they’d bought together, the one with the leaky faucet and the crooked shelf and the bedroom where they’d stopped sleeping close.