Every night just after we turn out the lights, I kiss my wife. We have, as far as I can remember, always done this.
It's a nice thing to do, but there are at least three obstacles that make it more difficult than it should be:
(1) Because it's dark, I can't see exactly where Terry is. So more often than not, as I'm trying to get my bearings, my groping hand slides along her face in a way that must be less than comfortable for her.
(2) It's not like I have to travel half a mile to get to her, but we have a king-size bed, so there is some effort required to move over to her side. And, you know, I'm pretty tired by that point in the day.
(3) In those times when we execute the good night kiss with the lights still on, she makes this puckering face that causes me to burst out laughing every time. She does it because she knows I think it's funny, but it does tend to suck out whatever minute element of romance may have been in the air when two extremely tired people in their early 50s are getting ready to settle down for the night.
Still, we manage to pull it off every night. Assuming I don't injure her (or myself from laughing at The Pucker), we intend to keep the streak going.
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