A Man in Your Situation

Knowing you’re with her causes a violent reaction inside me. Thankfully I have enough self control not to allow the violence to escape. I’m a lover, not a fighter. You know that about me. It’s probably why you feel safe doing what we do. You’re certain that I wouldn’t ever make a scene, blow up your life. You know me well.
            Does she ever think about the fact that I had you first? You were mine before you were hers. You show the world that you’re happily married but I know the truth. You confide in me. You tell me what’s really going on; a behind the scenes sneak peek, just for me. I feel special having this knowledge that no one else does. Well, I suppose that she has it too. A secret between you, me, and her; a most unappealing threesome.
            What happens when my name pops up on your phone? You probably have me saved as something else. Phil, Jacob, or David from Next Door. That’s what I would do, if I had someone else. There’s nothing suspicious about you texting another man. What about when she notices a mark on your neck or mint wrapper from the hotel lobby stuffed into your trouser pockets? Does she know that we have a whole life together hidden just underneath the glossy surface of her perfect life? Would she care? If what you told me about her is true, she might even find it a relief to know you’re happy with someone else. With me. I know I am.
            I feel electric currents when we kiss. That has to count for something. You feel it too; you’ve told me. It’s a dangerous feeling. It leaves me wanting more. I crave you when you’re not around and I want you around all the time. When we make love, it’s like the world stops. I’m not being dramatic; at least, not intentionally. That’s really what it feels like to me. I lose track of time and all sense of responsibility. 
            Contrary to popular belief, I don’t feel dirty when we’re together. (Unless that’s what you want from me. Then, I can be dirty.) We meet in hotels, in different cities, in cars that cost more than my apartment. When else would I get to indulge in life’s seemingly unattainable luxuries? Since we began our affair, I’ve developed a taste for high thread counts, chilled flutes of Veuve Clicquot, butter-soft leather car seats, room service at any hour, and expensive lingerie. 
            The first time we got together after you were married, I wore a bra and panties set from Zara. It was on sale and I wanted to get something pretty. Now I wear La Perla and I drip, flower, and thrive at your caress. You bring out the best in me. I suppose some people might say that since we’re having an affair, you technically bring out my worst. Neither of us see it that way. My heart thunders when a text from you appears, when you call me beautiful, when we fantasize about what our life would be like if we were really together. Truthfully, I think about it a lot.
            I’m not jealous. Not exactly. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone else like you. I don’t want anybody but you. The only problem is, you’re not exactly available. 
            We’re meeting up tonight. I can’t wait. I’ve curled my hair; it’s doing that bouncy thing that you like. I’m wearing the merlot floral-embroidered bra with the matching panties. That’s your favourite set. It’s mine, too. My lipstick matches and I’ve spritzed myself with a perfume that smells of dark cocoa, velvet almond, and tuberose. It’s at once elegant, sensual, and evocative. Three words that you’ve used, at one point or another, to describe me.
            I arrive at the hotel at quarter to eight. We’re staying the weekend so I’ve brought a carry-on suitcase. To passersby, I look like I’ve just popped into town on business. It’s all very innocent and inconspicuous. We’ve done this before. We are seasoned adulterers. Although, I don’t like that word. It’s too harsh. Yes, we are sleeping with each other but it’s much bigger than adultery. What we have is real. 
            At the front desk, I give your fake name and ask for the reservation. I’m given a key and am asked if I need assistance to get to our suite. I politely decline. I like going up alone because I don’t have to hide my giddiness or dazzled expression when I walk in. When someone else is there, I feel like I have to maintain an air of sophisticated nonchalance. My face has never been good at keeping secrets.
            It’s been an hour and you’re not here yet. It’s okay. I’ve poured a bubblebath, have loosely tied my curls on top of my head, and am mixing a vodka tonic. Moonlight is beginning to stream in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I undress.
            You’ve gotten caught up before. A man in your situation can’t always arrive at the intended time. I understand. But when another half-hour passes and I haven’t heard from you, I start to worry. My bathwater has long turned cold.
            I check my phone to see if you’ve responded to my texts. To my shock, I see that they haven’t been delivered. That’s weird. I have full service. Is your phone dead? I try calling but instead of going straight to voicemail, like it would if it were switched off, it just keeps ringing and ringing. Where are you? What’s going on? I call the front desk to check if you’ve left a message. There’s no word from you there either.
            A peach pit of realization forms in my stomach. You’re not coming. I’ve only allowed myself to imagine this day once. It wasn’t pleasant. I pour another vodka, slip into a soft white robe, and crawl on top of the king-size bed. 
            My tears come before you do.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ