Cold Hands

The sun glints off the snowflakes

Nestled in her red hair.

Her small, pink tongue darts out

And catches a wayward speck.

My body tenses when she grips my arm

"Come on," she croons, "your turn."

But my tongue has grown a dozen

Times its normal size. It refuses.

We walk to a hot cocoa stand.

I buy us both a drink, though she

Lazily attempts to push a five

Into my hand. "Well, thanks," she says,

Her face nearly as red as her hair.

She takes off her gloves and takes a

Cocoa. Her hand is ice cold for

The split second it grazes mine.

 

"How are you so warm?" Her non-ringed

Hand slips under my sweater, cooling

The fire building in my chest.

We take a sleigh ride through the park.

I tell her it's free, loud enough

For the driver, then slip him ten while

She's gazing at the Christmas lights.

I go to put my hand down but

Notice hers resting there. Before I can

Pull away, she grabs it and squeezes

It tightly as we ride.

"Thanks for taking me out," she says

At her apartment door. I smile

And wish her goodnight.

"Oh, do come inside."

Some other time. She pouts, blows a kiss,

Goes inside, and embraces her husband.