Cold, cold, cold
Cold, cold, cold
Freezing, it was freezing in that hotel
— the prophet lowell george
—

It’s 3 a.m. I am freezing.

A cold front has sent temperatures plummeting. We’re in bed. I can’t feel my digits. Sleep is futile.

Mo is equally cold. We’re sharing her Alaska Sleeping Bag, but it’s no match for the blanket of cold air enveloping us.

“My face is sooo cold,” Mo laments. “I wish I had a wool hat.” I try pulling a blanket over my head. I will likely suffocate, but death seems an acceptable alternative to the looming sleepless hours as we wait for the eventual spring thaw.

Time itself is frozen as the minutes creep by in our bedroom-turned-penguin preserve.

“You know,” I offer, “we could just turn the heater on …”

“No,” she replies decisively. “This is more fun.”

I roll over, hoping to eventually nod off to a vision of Nicholson at the end of “The Shining.”

Mo rolls over as well, taking the sleeping bag with her. I try to remind myself that penguins are so sensitive to my needs.

The thermostat sleeps blissfully, unaware the seasons have changed.

But still.

Mo is right.

This really IS more fun.

And that is why I love her.

I hope I live through the night so I can tell her.