With the cats fed, the infant checked on (he’s still asleep) and the three-year-old properly set up with cereal, I duck back into the master bedroom. My wife is stripping herself of her pajamas, her breasts proud in the cold morning.

“Oh my,” I say. We went to bed late last night -- too late for my erection, which isn’t 18 anymore -- and the pajamas interfere with nighttime groping. I have neither seen nor felt her breasts in a while.

“Holy cow your hands are cold,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “I see my wife’s breasts and only one thought crosses my mind.”

I follow her into the closet, putting my arms around her -- sleeves only, to keep my cold hands away from her warm skin. I begin to kiss her.

“Okay, hold on,” she says.

“Don’t mind me,” I say, “just showing my wife I love her.” I let one hand stray down to her butt -- already clad in pants, and just as warm as the rest of her. “(Hmm, I better not touch these either.)”

“I need to get ready,” she says. “Don’t take it personally.”

“But I’m the only other person here,” I joke.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she replies. “I need to start getting my game face on for work. When I get home, we can continue. But right now...”

“All right,” I agree. “But when you get home...”

She kisses me again. “Exactly.”

I glance at her breasts. “I think my hands are warmer now.”

“Yaagh!”

It turns out I am wrong.