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Senior year. Thesis stress. He said my argument was bold and my skirt was distracting—then apologized and asked me to stay anyway.
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The intoxicating pull of what you know you shouldn't want.
Senior year. Thesis stress. He said my argument was bold and my skirt was distracting—then apologized and asked me to stay anyway.
I knew her coffee order from Instagram. I still met him at the hotel. I told myself knowledge was protection. It wasn't.
French from college. He's fluent. My husband thinks we're discussing wine regions at dinner parties.
Sugar daddy is an ugly phrase for a man who saw me struggling and offered a door with conditions.
We discussed adultery in fiction last week. She said she'd never forgive it. I nodded. He texted me under the table.
The spreadsheet has two tabs. One is numbers. One is us.
Soccer is Tuesdays. Her flight lands Thursdays. I am a calendar for a man I can't introduce to anyone.
Wine dinner. She went to bed early. He offered a ride. We sat in the driveway twenty minutes and I wanted to be the villain of my own story.
I book the same hotel using the corporate card with codes she recognizes. She schedules \"client dinners\" that are not clients.
I am thirty-seven. He is maybe twenty-eight. I volunteer for snack schedule to stand near the field and hate myself politely.