We Haven't Kissed Hello in Two Years. Is That Fixable?

Fixable? Oh, sweetheart, yes. I'd say it with a straight face if I could, but you've made me smile, because two years of waving at each other like neighbours across a fence is its own kind of comedy. You didn't decide to stop. Nobody does. One busy morning the kiss got skipped, then it was awkward to bring back, and now it sits in the hallway like a piece of furniture nobody wants to be the first to move.

That's the thing about small rituals. They don't die in a dramatic scene. They die of quiet embarrassment. The longer a kiss goes missing, the bigger it feels to restart it, until a peck on the cheek seems to require a formal announcement. So let's shrink the stakes. We are not rekindling a grand passion tonight. We are bringing back a doorway habit, and you can do that in four seconds.

Start absurdly small. When one of you comes home, put down your bag first, then your keys, then walk to the other and kiss them on the forehead like a very tired and affectionate bishop. Laugh about it. The laugh is useful, because it admits the strangeness without making a meal of it. Tomorrow, make it the cheek. By the end of the week, let it find the mouth on its own.

What I'd gently ask is that you name it once, lightly. Something like, I've missed our hellos. That's all. No inquest into who stopped first, no tally of blame. Two years of silence on a small thing can feel enormous, and the quickest way to make it small again is a warm, silly confession over the washing-up.

I'm always glad to chat more about this on TheFriend, where my voice is waiting. Now, the homework, my dears. For the next seven days, every arrival and every departure gets a kiss, even a ridiculous one. A kiss on the knuckles, the shoulder, the tip of the nose. Keep a secret score of who invents the best one. The loser makes the tea.

More like this: see the virtual girlfriend online page.