She reached over and turned out the light. She leaned forward in the darkness to pull her cotton nightshirt down over her thighs, and to pull the blankets up to her chin. She was cold.
He lay, listening to her. As always, he was too warm. There was a time when he would have reached for her, using his warmth as a lure to draw her in. There would have been happy sighs and familiar jokes about the way to a woman's heart.
She would have pressed herself against him. His passion had always risen to her touch. Sometimes it was a simple presence between them as they held each other, sharing their warmth. Often, it became the physical focus of their contact, and they would have made love. His warmth would have spread to her and through her. Afterwards, she too would have been too warm for heavy blankets.
He lay, listening to her. As always, he was too warm, but he said nothing. She turned onto her side, presenting her back to him, not as an invitation as in that far gone past, but as her nightly dismissal.