On the pop-up ad for romantic winter retreats, I click “No thanks, I’ll stick to my boring motel” because
one time the zipper of my parka got stuck at my sternum, and I was one moment cozy, the next panicked, drowning in nylon fiberfill, which reminded me of a man
I once loved—a man who wouldn’t, on a beautiful night, open the windows while we slept. I’d wake past midnight suffocating in the air-conditioned comfort
of his bed. So what if he rocked a Ralph Lauren suit like nobody’s business? I had to breathe.
Maybe I’m that woman who wanted a fat man just for the winter. She said she’d feed him biscuits and thick cut bacon all season if he’d only keep the bed warm. But she didn’t have any luck— every man who wanted her, wanted her year-round.
What is this urge that makes us hold on so tight? Even loose
and a tiny bit drunk on a hot rum toddy, there’s no way either of us can split a biscuit perfectly. But if you, honey-shucks, will slather butter on my slender half, have what you will.
Take me, darling, to the Ho Hum Motel. We’ll have so much fun they’ll rename the place when we’re gone.