Cold Feet [DELUXE ⇒]

Three years of marriage. Two of them good. One of them slowly freezing over.

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. Cold Feet

“I don’t want to be cold anymore,” he said into the dark. “I don’t want us to be cold.” Three years of marriage

Emma’s eyes stung. She looked down at her hands. The ring. The rainbows. Emma stared at the socks

Mark shifted closer. Not all the way—just enough that their shoulders almost touched. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out something small and worn. A pair of wool socks. His old ones, the ones from the pond, patched at the heel and faded from a dozen washes.