Finish Lines

Recently one morning, approximately 3 long weeks after the thesis marathon began, I bent over Chris’s head and murmured, “Will you get up or do I have to be mean?”

“What kind of mean?” he mumbled, his face still buried in the pillow.

“Cold hands,” I returned. “Lost blankets.”

“Bare, sore bottoms,” he mumbled. “Bottoms without panties.”

I couldn’t help it. “Yes please,” I said, laughing.

“You’re depraved,” he grumbled.

I kissed his temple. “You’re one letter off,” I corrected.

Later that day, he stepped into my office. “I think I might finish today,” he told me.

Good, I thought. Good. Yes, please. And suddenly I wished I had slipped my freezing cold hands down his back to cup his rear inside his boxers. Good.