A year ago I wrote him a scathing email. It was during one of our angrier exchanges when Matt told me for the umpteenth time that he was going to give his marriage “one last shot.”
I tried not to ask when he was planning on finally telling her, but inside I was anxious for things to get moving.
I flew to his city to see him. It had been six months, which felt like ten minutes and fifty years all at once.
I wondered why she got to go on trips, taken out to nice dinners, and be his spouse while I was the one dealing with his insomnia and panic attacks.
Of all of the things I regret most about my two years with Matt, it’s that I didn’t get up in the middle of that conversation, get in my car and drive away.
The second time I saw Matt, he asked me to get myself off in front of him. Curling his body next to mine, he started to whisper things in my ear.
Matt, I knew, was married. I also knew we shared the same niche kink.