"Next year," she says between kisses, "let's not go anywhere. I am tired of putting all this on and taking it off." She says it like of course there will be a next year, and a year after that, and a year after that. She puts her bare hands on his shoulders, cool to the touch, her fingers very long. Her palms are soft these days. Her hands slide down his chest and one of them tweaks one of his nipples just to see him jump. She's momentarily distracted by how weird it is that men have them at all. Then she's distracted by how weird sex is, in general. He can see her face starting to slide away, brows pushed together, like she made a wrong turn somewhere and got lost.
It's cold in here but she still finds herself wriggling out of her coat.