The Last Anniversary - Liane Moriarty

Until he died she hadn't realised just how often Jimmy had touched her: a kiss on the forehead in the morning when he brought in her morning tea, sudden bear-hugs if they met in the hallway. When they watched the six o'clock news together they'd sit thigh-to-thigh on the sofa and he's absent-mindedly stroke her arm while he concentrated on the news, frowning heavily and muttering beneath his breath at the politicians' lies. He'd run his fingers up and down her spine while they read together in bed. And patting her bottom - well, the man couldn't leave it alone!

The problem was that after all those years her body seemed to have adapted to being touched. Now the touching had stopped, just like that, with no warning, and it was a shock, like a blast of cold air.