by Kate Manning
“Do you ever get distracted?”
His email lingered on my BlackBerry. I knew what he was asking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer.
We hadn’t seen each other for a year when I ran into him. I was at a bookstore event with an author I was collaborating with. He was shopping for Mother’s Day gifts. When I saw him, I instinctively kissed him on the cheek— a fatal mistake.
Me: “If you mean do I get distracted by work, yes, of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”
Him: “That’s not what I mean.”
The first time we met, we were in a conference room. I had just returned from maternity leave and wasn’t accustomed to my larger, changed body. It never crossed my mind that another man would find the postpartum version of me attractive. When our eyes connected, it felt as if his deep blue eyes reached out and pulled me in. I was hooked, but I thought an innocent crush would eventually fade.
Him: “I meant, do you ever get distracted from your marriage?”
As a new mother, I completely got distracted from my marriage by my infant son. That wasn’t the response he was looking for.
Me: “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a crush on you.”
My chest tightened.
Him: “That makes me happy.”
Thoughts swirled around my head. His words were a riptide pulling me out to sea. There was no going back to shore.
Me: “Why does that make you happy?”
Him: “Because all I’ve wanted to do since we met is kiss you.”
I inhaled sharply, and my heartbeat sped up. I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff, free-falling into something I couldn’t control.
Me: “I’ve wanted to kiss you, too.”
Suddenly, we found ourselves in a bubble rising above the noise of everyday life. Spouses, kids, and jobs no longer mattered. There was no sense of time. It was just the two of us, and it felt good.
Him: “I want to know what you’re like outside of being a mother and wife. I want to see the sexy, seductive you.”
His words wrapped around me like a cozy blanket on a chilly day.
Me: “What are we going to do about this?”
Him: “What do you want to do about it?”
Part of me wanted to end the conversation and return to my routine: work, my son, my husband. The other part of me wanted to jump through my BlackBerry and kiss the person sending me emails. In that moment, right and wrong didn’t exist. Lust had come for a visit and didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.
Me: “We should meet for a drink. I’m free tomorrow night.”
Him: “It’s a date.”
Me: “It’s not a date.”
I wasn’t free the following night. I was scheduled to meet two bartenders and test a few cocktails for an upcoming party. I figured having a couple of drinks before seeing him would make me less nervous.
The next day, as I got ready for work, I carefully selected a flattering dress that accentuated my new curves. I ignored the voice in my head telling me this was a bad idea and applied makeup, wondering if my husband would notice that I was dressed up. He didn’t.
I was sitting at my desk in the office when a message appeared.
Him: “What are you wearing?”
Me: “A black sleeveless dress with a V-neck and heels.”
Him: “What about underneath?”
Me: “Black lace.”
Him: “Oh. My. God.”
I smiled to myself, happy with the tease I had given him. It had been years since any man cared about what I was wearing underneath my clothes. I enjoyed the attention.
Me: “I’m so nervous. Aren’t you nervous? What will happen when we see each other?”
Him: “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I decided to trust him.
The meeting with the bartenders started with a hibiscus cocktail. It was deliciously potent, just like his messages to me.
By cocktail number three, I turned to a colleague and said I had a dinner meeting. We agreed that she’d handle the bartenders from there.
I didn’t realize how tipsy I was until I was walking down Hudson Street in New York City. It was July, and the warm breeze felt good as it hit my flushed cheeks. We decided to meet at a swanky restaurant near my office. I sat at the bar, ordered a glass of white wine, and waited. I was an actress in my own life, about to play a role I never aimed for: The Mistress.
He appeared as I turned my head toward the entrance. I could feel my smile grow wider as he walked up to me. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
Him: “Hi.”
Me: “Well, hello.”
I ran my index finger up the stem of my wine glass. He ordered a rum and Coke.
Me: “I’m so nervous.”
He sat close to me and put his hand on my knee.
Him: “Nothing to be nervous about. It’s just us.”
Just us. Married to other people. Flirting with each other, wanting so much more.
As he started rubbing my leg, I lost my train of thought, and any will I had to resist him.
Him: “Let’s get out of here.”
I nodded, collected my belongings, and followed him. We walked and talked, and when we reached Spring Street, it happened. He grabbed my hand, pulled me into him, and kissed me. I kissed him back, and in that moment, my nervousness melted away. The sidewalk was busy, but it didn’t matter. The want overpowered me, and I didn’t care who saw us. When we came up for air, he whispered a question.
Him: “Want to go for a ride?”
Me: “A ride? In New York City? Um. Okay.”
We walked to where he’d parked his car. He opened the passenger side for me, and I got in, but I started feeling confused. What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Who was I? When he sat in the driver’s seat, he leaned over and kissed me. It felt so good that I stopped overthinking and started kissing him more intensely.
Him: “Let’s go to a hotel. The Marriott Marquis in Times Square. I have points.”
I laughed and thought, “Who mentions points when they start an affair?” I knew committing to the hotel meant more lines would be crossed, and there would be no turning back. Once it happened, I’d have to compartmentalize it. Besides, I thought this was a one-night stand. A sort of “get it out of my system” rendezvous.
Me: “Okay. Yes.”
He smiled and drove uptown. We left his car with the valet at the hotel, and I sat in the lobby while he checked in. I was doing a good job of pretending my other life didn’t exist.
We had barely entered the hotel room before we started ripping each other’s clothes off. There was an urgency between us: We had to do this right now, or it might never happen.
Him: “I want you.”
Me: “Take me.”
I had forgotten how the newness of someone could strip away my vulnerabilities. Suddenly, I wasn’t self-conscious about my naked body. He looked me up and down.
Him: “You’re beautiful.”
Twenty years later, I long to hear those words again.'
Kate Manning works in the publishing industry.
Oh dear. Then what?
We are drawn in to wanting to know more. This is just a tease not a fleshed out story with consequences.