The date: June 17, 2000. The place: Mansfield, MA…
Standing in my doorway, I watched her through the screen door as she pulled up in front of the house. She saw me, too, flashing that familiar smile back at me as she came to a stop. As she walked up to the front door, I held it open for her to let her step inside, and as soon as the door closed behind her, I gave her that hug.
And that kiss. A soft little peck on the lips, just like I’d done the very first time that night seven years ago. The peck melted into a long, lingering kiss, my arms finding their way around her back, my hands slowly gliding down to rest along her waist as I pulled her against me. And still we kissed, the tips of our tongues darting between locked lips.
How much time went by, I have no idea. But time did pass, and eventually the kiss did as well. We stared at each other, each of us barely uttering a throaty “hi” to each other—and we kissed again. And again, still standing in my living room, hardly having said a word to each other. But even with the torrent of emotions, that little voice of reason in my head managed to get enough air to whisper in my ear, “This isn’t right—she’s married, isn’t she?” I ignored him, or at least tried to.
A short while later, we’re standing on the landing out back, hanging out some of her camping gear to dry out. I stood with my back to the railing, the wood pressing into me from behind as I held her once again in my arms. And, of course, we kissed again, apparently still making up for lost time and lost chances. And from out of the blue, I asked, “So what’s the deal with you and <her husband>?” And she smiled this devilish little smile, as if she had been wondering what had taken me so long to ask. Her reply?—“No deal.” And with that, I finally noticed—no ring. I replied very matter-of-factly, “Oh, okay”, and kissed her again.
She’d been there for less than half an hour, and I already knew I was lost forever.