Winter
"Hey, Gabi?" he calls.
An exhausted, defeated sigh from a foot and a half away on the mess of tangled, rumpled, sweaty sheets that tonight have nothing to do with a tussle between the sheets. It's too hot to even consider touching, and the blankets and quilts are lying in a dejected heap on the floor.
"Yes?"
"You asleep?"
"Of course I'm asleep," she replies without a second of hesitation. "I just happen to be perfectly coherent."
A snort.
"You just happen to be a real bitch."
"Sorry. It's the heat."
"I hear that. I think it's making me lose braincells. Why aren't we used to this?"
"We spent three years getting used to cold, snowy winters," she replies wearily.
"No way. I hated it; being freezing all the time, getting up at five-thirty every morning to help you scrape the frost off the car windows--"
"Did I ever thank you for that?"
"Don't worry, babe, we're good. But no way do I miss that place."
"Be that as it may, your body still probably thinks it should be huddling on a bearskin rug in front of a fireplace somewhere."
A long pause.
"Okay, so maybe that part was kind of nice," he admits grudgingly.
Another long pause.
"Buddy?"
"Yeah?"
"Last time I checked, the cottage still hadn't sold."
And another.
"Alright, but that rug better still be there."