Mrs. moskowitz and the house painter

Mrs. Moskowitz was having her house painted, and between the smell of the paint and the hassle she found life difficult.  It was the last straw when Mr. Moskowitz forgot himself and leaned against the bedroom wall leaving a distinct hand mark on the fresh paint.  The Mrs. made her feelings clearly known and the husband tried to calm her down. "What's the fuss?" he said, "the painter's returning tomorrow so he'll paint it over."

Nevertheless, Mrs. Moskowitz found it difficult to sleep all night.  The thought of that hand mark bothered her. The next morning, then, the painter had barely stepped over the threshold when she was upon him saying, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here.  All night long I've been thinking of you and waiting for you. Come with me to the bedroom. I want to show you where my husband put his hand."

The painter blanched and stepped back, aghast.  "Please," he said, “I'm not a young man. A glass of lemonade, and maybe a cookie, is all I want."