Conjugal Visit: The Mouth I Can’t Forget

I don’t recall how we actually met, though we knew people in common, and of course there was stupid Facebook. It was the only way we could send each other signals. I have a vague memory of bumping into her at Victrola and we both acted like we’d known each other for years and I walked out on tiptoes, with stars for eyes and little Cupids circling my head. I don’t remember how many times we had to reschedule, but it was a few. I was traveling a lot and she had rehearsals (or maybe misgivings?). And somewhere in the haze we’d both vaguely, maybe, kinda started seeing other people—nothing to make it technically wrong for us to have one night together before we went off into divergent real lives. She came over, we drank enough wine to be loose and funny together, but not so much that we weren’t still ourselves. The air seemed charged, but you never know. Then she said, “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” I did. We did, hungrily. Then we moved to the bedroom. Her mouth, her curves, her sounds—those I remember. I’m embarrassed to say how well and how often. The next time we saw each other, we were both married to other people.