Liam had a wife who loved him, I knew that. He had three little tow-headed children I decided to forget about as we embraced with a passion I had never felt. A white-picket fence, a backyard with a golden-retriever named Sam, a kitchen with stacks of cookbooks by bored famous people, a decade old station wagon that smelled of brown leather, and-worst of all- a 1960s “trying to be modern” bed in which he shared with his brown-haired 47 year old wife who quit her job working as a broker in order to stay home and become the classic soccer mom. These details haunted my conscious as soon as I left his grey, florescent lighted office, and as his coffee breathe left my trembling mouth- I attempted to be ignorant to the fact that he had a life, a family, a home. The quote, “all is fair in love and war”, may be wildly used and referred to but that statement is false because what I felt those 4 months wasn’t fair or right. A burning ball of fire churned within my invaded body, a desperate guilt resided within me. I did know that sometimes what is harder is right, but I couldn’t break away from his aged hands, his corny comments, his lovely, lovely after shave. You all may think I am a psycho-path, a home wrecker. A heartless wrench who thinks of nothing but her useless, sl**ty self. I plead you to not judge, I beg of you to listen to the story I am about to tell. After this story, if you remain loyal to your opinions- may you have sympathy!

It all began one Saturday afternoon, Liam came into the office to work overtime on a legal statement for his new client, a retired police officer who was shot in the leg and who wanted to sue his doctor for over-charging him. I was also coincidently at the office picking up a sweater I had left the other day, but then I decided to stay when I realized that Liam was present as well. It was all so ridiculous- I know. I thought of it as a childish crush, unimportant obsession. As I sat in my out-dated, maroon office chair, surfing the internet while humming “Don’t stop Believin”, I saw Liam standing there, looking frazzled with his thinning brown hair lying in all directions. Huge bags hung under his eyes and his skin looked pale and dead, like my heart. I knew of no love before this. I thought of it a myth, a simple folk tale told in order to make human kind happier and more secure. Though, one sudden phrase he spoke a couple moments later reversed all former views on love, transformed my ignorance, “I love Journey.” My heart stopped because at this very moment I knew that my obsession was not without cause, was not without reason. We were meant for each other- it was as simple as that. He took a seat on a wooden, mean looking chair directly in front of my desk. We spoke of music and of life and passion and of law. It seemed as if we were made up of one soul, though two separate, imperfect bodies. He then mentioned kids, then a wife, then his picket fence, and it struck me- I was falling for a married man. He made subtle moves towards me, for example him touching my hand and calling me pretty. We became friends, friends who deep inside knew our inexpressible love. Our forbidden dream. After about a month he came to me after everyone left the office, held my wavy, Pantene smelling hair, and kissed me. It wasn’t merely a kiss, a touching of two lips. It was as if the missing parts of me, the part which I never understood, was finally so very clear. For he was everything I was and everything I was not. We became secret lovers, hidden charmers. Though, deep deep inside each of us we knew this love was not moral or right, but our unexplainable lust towered over our rules and obligations. We never really discussed his alter-ego, his other life. But one Tuesday morning he entered my office with bloodshot eyes and a few red hives on his neck which he gets when he nervous about something. “I’m leaving my wife. I love you,” he stuttered as he rubbed his sweaty palms on his gray flannel pants. My breathe stopped and our eyes met, and I could find nothing to say but, “Okay.” It seemed as if a bullet went through his heart, for he then stammered out of my office. Before this point I ignored his marriage, his children. I pretended not to know, pretended he was all mine. I should have run to him, held him, and told him I was there for him. But I couldn’t be that women who thrives off of a broken family, who aggressively takes what is not hers. That afternoon, I remained late again thinking he would remain as well. I stepped into his office to find a post-it note on his desk that read: “I was wrong. I am sorry my love, I will always love you but I have a family. I am quitting tomorrow and finding a new job. I shouldn’t have put you through this. Know how beautiful and wonderful you are.” A knife went through my flat chest, I exploded within. I knew this was for the better, though it killed knowing he chose something over me. It’s not that I considered myself higher or greater than his wife, but a note a note is all I received after these months of pure, uncorrupted love. My “okay” must have made him realize what a stupid decision he was making. I don’t know if I regret saying okay. I don’t know what I know. All I know is that he is currently with his wife, his three tow-headed children, within a white picket fence, in a 1960s bed.