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He first noticed it the week she moved in - her feet are like ice in the morning. Cold, solid blocks of frozen flesh. And she presses them against the backs of his calves to warm them up. Of course he thinks her frozen toe issue has something to do with her kicking the covers off for half the night, then dragging her icicle toes back under the covers an hour before the alarm goes off.
Sitting at his desk at work, avoiding his current patient, he glances at the calendar someone left on top of the pile of charts in the center of his view and he realizes that he has been noticing Stacy's cold feet for the past three years. One thousand ninety-five days (ninety-six if any of those had been a leap year).
He was even more surprised to realize that the three years of icy toes didn't bother him. It was a strange constant that he would miss if it was gone. That was when he realized he didn't want it gone. That if he had to endure Stacy's cold feet for the next three years or thirty years or three hundred years, he'd be okay with that.