There were eight other women, alongside myself, called to the ‘Gathering Room’ on this day. At forty-six years, I was twice the age of the others — a group of diverse women: college students, young professionals, a free spirit in search of self-discovery, one aspiring actor, and, ironically enough, an escort — all chosen for their exceptional beauty and strong sexual prowess. Two of us were married, although Adelaide was engaged to be wed this summer. I was the only one to have birthed a child, Avery, who was older than a few of those here. When called to gather, it was necessary to immediately abandon personal lives and report for preparation.

Each of us was treated to a palatial wash, aided by an elegant, refined handmaiden, in a spacious, deep natural stone soaking tub holding comfortably warm, mineral-infused water and fragrant bath oils. Thereafter, individual beauticians were assigned to us at private parlor stations, with reflections accentuated by the natural lighting that framed the dressing table mirrors.

There were rules, the strict enforcement of which was tasked to a sergeant-at-arms. Not allowed to speak with one another, conversations were limited to beauty assistants and were businesslike, exclusively regarding treatments.

A cut, style, cleansing facial, manicure, pedicure, and a tasteful amount of makeup to highlight one’s most alluring attributes — the grooming regimen now complete — attentive agents ushered us to a plush fitting room to select formal evening attire.

The full array of gowns to choose from consisted entirely of floor-length, sheer apparel that faintly displayed our delicate feminine forms.

I selected a mulberry silk maxi bodycon spotlighting a mermaid V-neck and open back that complemented my sophisticated French twist.

We were nine glamorous women that would be graciously received at any official state function. The sergeant-at-arms then guided us along a network of opulent, travertine-tiled corridors, beneath grand ancient archways, and opened the door to a room we affectionately called ‘The Paddock.’

This chamber in no way resembled the enclosure at any raceway. It was a study in aristocratic refinement: velvet wallcovering of muted sage green bordered by ornate moldings, a Chesterfield sofa upholstered in leather, a Louis XVI-style armchair, a grand piano in one corner, and a marble fireplace with a warming flame. Above it hung a soft body oil painting of the nineteenth-century courtesan Cora Pearl riding side-saddle on horseback, commissioned from an 1865 photograph.

A collection of antique porcelain figurines nestled beside nine crystal flutes filled with Salon Blanc de Blancs champagne adorned a mother-of-pearl inlaid writing desk.

While awaiting the arrival of the “Keeper,” we received authorization to engage in limited discussion. However, sharing personal details remained prohibited. When addressing the group, his ‘Stable of Vixens,’ we were to use the names he assigned to us.

Esme was the newest temptress. We brought her aside and began to explain what she should expect, as the ‘Keeper’ was known to select a ‘virgin coquette’ at her initial appearance. Her nerves were evident as she sipped her champagne at a pace quicker than the rest of us. We advised her to just follow his cues.

The last remnants of Salon Blanc de Blancs now a memory, the sergeant-at-arms opened the entryway, and outlined in the subdued light at the threshold stood the embodiment of masculine perfection. A Greek Adonis bearing shoulder-length hair, wearing leather slacks that hug his powerful, sinewy thighs as taut as the creature they came from, a sculpted torso, Herculean arms, and an open satin vest over his bare chest. Every aspect of his physique was the epitome of the ideal male form, a formidable opponent for Spartacus.

The ‘Keeper’ wove about the room, his movements marked by regal assurance, circling each of us and scanning from head to toe. He ran his left hand through Adelaide’s hair, twirling it into a tight circle using his finger. Massalia closed her eyes and exhaled a heated sigh as from behind he traced a finger teasingly down the nape of her neck. Stopping at Lilith, intense passion in his expression, he leaned into her, releasing a wisp of his breath to caress her ear. At last, he sought out Esme. Her waist-length blonde hair, fashioned into a low bun, and amber, cat-like eyes would inspire envy in a ballroom full of debutantes. Over his shoulder, I could see the ‘Keeper’ gently lifting Esme’s chin and pressing his lips to hers, causing her legs to quiver like a newborn fawn as she patiently anticipated his next command.

Without warning, he directed his focus my way and began taking slow, deliberate steps, gradually closing the distance that separated us.

A lingering gaze was intended to awaken my desires. “Corinth, please sit.” I felt a surge of raw adrenaline.

This was the signal. He had chosen me to satisfy his urges this evening. Looking past his muscular frame, Esme’s fear was supplanted by a deepened disappointment.

Following his instructions, I assumed the meditative Padmasana position on the pastoral scenes of the flat-weave Aubusson carpet.

With noble grace, the ‘Keeper’ sank down beside me, our knees brushing.

Four service staff entered, one placing a chabudai between us, the others setting glasses of 1982 Château Rothschild flanking a tray of cubed Wagyu beef.

Extending a skewered piece of marbled tenderness held by a two-pronged amuse-bouche fork to my parted lips, I held the succulent morsel delicately employing my teeth, drawing it from his cutlery.

He spoke with a genuine fondness, praising my stunning appearance tonight. I reached across and ran my fingers along the ridges of his muscular chest. Taking my hand, he raised it and seductively inhaled its sensual aroma.

Between sips of the complex tannins, flirtatious glances darted back and forth as we playfully offered the final portions of the sweet, buttery, meaty delicacy to each other.

The service staff returned, bowing, and removed the obstacles that held us at bay.

The requisite preliminaries now addressed, the awaited time had come for tonight’s carnal union. Four of the ‘vixens’ helped prepare me for the encounter, easing me onto my back, while the other four attended to the ‘Keeper.’

He lay outstretched above me, supported by his chiseled biceps, looking into my wanting eyes. Then, he dropped tantalizingly onto his forearms. Sensing his hair touching my cheeks like a gossamer feather, we savored a deep, memorable, romantic kiss. Moments later, a second, followed by a third.

My arms under his, I wrapped them over his shoulders as he rocked back and forth against my exposed body, the full weight of his sweaty form pressing on me under the watchful eye of the approving Cora Pearl. Esme sat on the floor above my head, studying intently while stroking my hair, which was splaying across the rug. Gradually the movement subsided. We held one another in a motionless embrace. When our breathing steadied, he placed his lips beside my ear and, in a whisper that was scarcely audible, confided, “You have always been my favorite, Corinth.”

…

I sprang up in a panic and attempted to reorient myself, blinking rapidly and letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Beads of sweat trickled from my forehead as the adductor muscle of my left thigh continued to spasm. Did I just have an orgasm? I slumped back onto my elbows. After a moment spent collecting my thoughts, the foggy episode slowly began to take shape in my still-lethargic mind.

A sudden realization sent a shiver racing down my backbone. I looked across the bed at my husband, curious if he had heard my cries of ecstasy as this Greek heartthrob exploited me for his gratification.

Brian’s eyes were closed, his mouth open, a soft gurgle resonating from the depths of his throat. I guess not. But in truth, I wish he had.

I cuddled up next to him and slipped my hand between his legs, squeezing his manhood softly.

He gently took my arm and pulled it up to his chest.

Is it time I reconsidered my fundamental understanding of the opposite sex? I was brought up to believe that a quick roll in the hay at the drop of a hat, or whenever an opportunity may ‘arise’, is hardwired into male DNA.

…

We met as sophomores at Boston University. Being history majors, both class schedules frequently coincided. This semester, we shared two courses together. He hailed from Framingham, while I came from Mahwah, New Jersey. I suspected he might be a potential stalker, as I often caught him hastily diverting his attention whenever I glanced in his direction. ‘Restraining order’ was a phrase I made a point to remember.

My guard was lowered, and I was ill-prepared for his ambush that Friday. Brian walked up behind me and tapped my shoulder. “Hi, Sarah. Got a minute to talk?”

“Not really. Why? What’s up?” I actually had the balance of the day free.

“Well, BU and BC are playing tonight, and I was wondering if you would like to go with me?”

It was a big hockey game versus our arch-rivals, but fortune smiled upon me, and I had an out. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m taking the train back home for the weekend.”

“Well… I can pick you up, and we could explore Central Park or something.”

“You… come to New Jersey?” My surprise was evident in my elevated tone.

“Sure. It’s only a three-hour ride, and you can drive back with me.”

I had to hand it to him; he was persistent. I considered this a negotiated agreement, swapping one day with Brian to spare myself seven wearisome hours of switching from one noisy train to another.

“Alright. But just so you know, this is not a ‘date,’” I emphasized.

…

My father was left shaking his head in disbelief. Who would drive all that way to take me out when we lived ten minutes from each other on campus?

While we sat around the kitchen table, eating his ‘famous’ Southwestern omelet, and catching up on family gossip, the conversation was interrupted by a chime from the front entryway.

As I swung open the porch door, I was greeted by Brian’s smiling countenance.

My expression must have been priceless. “Brian! You’re so… early!” I exclaimed, unable to conceal my astonishment.

“I have a big day planned, if you’re up for it.”

He followed closely on my heels into the kitchen, where I clumsily introduced him to my parents.

“Brian, sit. Give my Southwestern omelet a taste; it’s a favorite all across the Sunbelt.” My father loved boasting of his culinary abilities.

The discourse shifted to Brian as my parents started their interrogation. Finished with my meal, I cleared the aftermath of breakfast. “You go ahead and eat, Brian, while I get ready.”

We left at eleven o’clock. Brian opened the door of his car, which, for lack of a better term, I will call ‘rustic,’ and assisted me as I climbed into the passenger seat.

Thirty minutes spent in his worn-out vehicle, most of it in silence, and I was reluctant but felt compelled to ask, “So… where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he simply said.

It was when we took the exit onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway that our destination finally became apparent.

Smiling, I turned to him. “I haven’t been to Coney Island since I was ten.”

Walking along the boardwalk, we indulged in fairground ‘delicacies’ that tasted too amazing to be guilt-free and experienced rides that had been in existence for a century. I discovered that we had a multitude of interests in common, and if discussions began to dwindle, we could always rely on tales from seventeenth-century Puritan New England.

…

I slipped my arm through Brian’s as we walked up to my parents’ door on the front porch. “When we left this morning, I thought spending today with you was going to be boring and tedious.”

“And was it?”

The words that were about to depart my lips would have been unimaginable twenty-four hours earlier. “It was far from that. I just want to thank you. I had a wonderful time. It rekindled some old memories and gave me new ones to cherish. I suppose we might consider this an ‘unofficial date,’” I said, moving closer to press a light kiss on his cheek.

My mother suggested that Brian spend the night on the sofa in the back room while he and I sat watching some old sitcoms, chuckling at the characters’ clothing choices and the women’s hairdos.

We both were feeling the effects of the hectic afternoon, so I faced Brian and wished him goodnight. As I approached the staircase on the way to my room, I caught sight of my mother sitting alone in the kitchen, a half-empty glass of wine resting between her hands on the table.

“Would you like some company?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied, gesturing to the seat across from her.

We reminisced for a bit before I asked if she recalled the story she shared in one of my darkest moments. My boyfriend, Sean, had broken up with me a week before the senior prom, leaving me devastated and isolating myself in my room.

“You told me the Chinese tale of Zhu Yingtai, who fell in love with Liang Shanbo, but she was betrothed to another man. Liang died of heartbreak, and Zhu leapt into his tomb on her wedding day. They both transformed into butterflies and were reunited forever.”

“I remember,” she said. There was a marked change in her mood as I retold Zhu’s saga.

“When you kissed me and left that night, that’s when Zhu came to me for the first time.”

My mother shot me a quizzical stare.

“I’m not crazy. She speaks to me with her lute.”

She sat shaking her head at the absurdity of what she had just heard from her sole offspring, waiting for me to explain further.

“No, it’s absolutely true,” I tried to reassure her I hadn’t lost my sanity. “Clear as a bell, she was playing I Will Survive.”

I remembered that driving rhythm swirling wildly within me, every organ rejuvenated by those empowering lyrics. Going back to the closet, I slipped on my prom dress and spun pirouettes until I collapsed backward onto the bed, arms outstretched, dizzy and utterly exhausted.

Whoever Zhu was — my fairy godmother, a whimsical sprite, or my protective spirit — she was the guiding force that kept me on track when I started to veer off course.

I gave Mother a kiss on the forehead as she touched my cheek, and, forcing a grin, she sighed, “Good night, darling.”

It was an unexpectedly delightful day, and I lay in bed feeling a profound emptiness in my womanly anatomy, yearning to be sated. It took me back to puberty, when Julie Foster, sparing no detail, explained the biological purpose of our most private region.

In hindsight, I wish I had questioned my mother concerning the abrupt change in her demeanor as I narrated Zhu’s legend.

…

We continued to see each other. Initially, it was maybe once a month, but that soon changed to a weekly basis, and before we knew it, daily. Our circle of friends began to see us as a single entity.

“Have you seen Brian and Sarah?”

“Did you hear about Brian and Sarah?”

“Brian and Sarah were supposed to meet us here.”

Six months into the relationship, we made the commitment to be exclusive. That opened another door; sex was the next logical step, and we were good at it.

We consummated our love in every imaginable place. Restaurants, libraries, the sixth floor of a parking garage stairwell, and the school cafeteria. Even while fans were singing Sweet Caroline during the seventh inning at Fenway, we found a corner tucked away under the bleachers and were banging away.

Recomposing ourselves and catching a collective breath, I held up my hand and extended my baby finger. “Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear?” Brian said, his expression one of confusion, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Pinky swear,” I said. “Promise that you will never leave me, and I promise I will never abandon you, no matter what happens.”

Brian intertwined his finger in mine. “Pinky swear.”

By the time we graduated and were married, we had christened all six New England states, New York, and even my bed at home, which had only ever been shared with Gloria Gaynor.

We were on the fast track to the copulation hall of fame.

…

That was then. Passion nowadays was a morning peck on the cheek and an “I’ll see you tonight,” followed by an evening peck on the opposite cheek and “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Twenty-four years of marriage, and I felt like I had uncovered a long-lost sibling given up at birth. I loved him with every cell in my body, but I wanted the old Brian back.

I reached out and grabbed Father Time’s unkempt, scruffy beard right under his weathered chin. I pulled his wretched nose until it butted mine, and with a menacing glare, I made sure he heard every one of my deliberate, measured words. “You…had…better…send…me…back…my…old…Brian — The Brian who stepped up at the posh masquerade ball when his colleague’s hand ventured a bit too far down the back of my chinchilla getup, attempting to explore under my unsuspecting little fluffy tail. The Brian who cleaned me up and tucked me into bed when I’d been sick from too many Mai Tais.

I sought conversation, intelligent and thought-provoking dialogue, yet equally needed a frivolous, flirtatious, and silly chit-chat. A cultivated lovemaking refined over two decades, attuned to each other’s bodies and well-acquainted with mutual inclinations, in the privacy of our bedroom was my only longing.

The first time the word ‘divorce’ surfaced in my mind, I shuddered. Did I say that I loved him? I wasn’t ready to end this union. Divorce meant the game clock on our partnership had run down to triple zeros. But the more times I said it, the less painful it became and the more immune I was to its ramifications.

After this morning’s peck on the cheek and “I’ll see you tonight,” I sat down at the center island, opened my laptop, and popped in my earbuds. I’m a writer of children’s books for early readers. You might have read my story featuring the anxious yet bold boy facing his first day at school, “Peter’s Principal.” Probably not. I’m still seeking my first publication. The title was cheesy, yet somewhat cute, I thought.

Heating a kettle of water, I prepared a bowl of my beloved Old-Fashioned Steel-Cut Rolled Oats, topped with granola and a drizzle of agave for sweetness. Sliced strawberries when I have them, alongside a mug of fresh-ground Asian excelsa from my French press.

A couple of spoonfuls into my morning routine, there was a knock on the screen. Before I had an opportunity to swallow, Olivia Burke was leaning on her elbows across the breakfast bar from me.

Raising my eyes, I motioned to my mouth that I couldn’t speak.

“Happy birthday, girl,” she said.

Forty-six years old, and my husband hadn’t even acknowledged my arrival on the planet.

Olivia was aware of my unmet primal hunger. Brian and I explored various methods to turn up the heat. Incorporating the use of toys, erotic videos, and eventually therapy provided a temporary fix, but we ultimately ended up right back where we started. When the counselor mentioned “blown” during a word association exercise, Brian instantly replied, “Bad call in the fourth quarter.”

She peeked over at me, her expression conveying, “We have some work to do here.”

Olivia and I were meant to be sisters, maybe even twins — a pair of intertwined vines. Each unique tendril ascended, its own character evident, yet they supported one another as they climbed the textured grid of clay and brick in unison.

We had no barriers, confiding the feelings and fantasies kept private from our partners. One night, Olivia confessed to letting a much younger graduate student she met at a local pub take her to his home after consuming a few too many Cosmopolitans. They climbed the stairs to the rooftop of his twenty-three-story condominium complex at midnight. Arms extended against the parapet, she looked down at the dimly lit translucent curtains of the townhouses and tenements below. While being pounded from behind, thoughts wandered to how many other lustful women were joining in a steamy chorus at that moment, their soft whimpers of erotic bliss mingling with breathy exhalations and deep moans, cradled by gentle breezes and whisked through the streets of the city.

I pressed another cup of coffee for us as Olivia reached into her handbag and laid a small package in front of me, wrapped in shiny pink paper dotted with pixies, mermaids, and unicorns.

“Well, you are a children’s author,” she chided. “Go ahead, open it!”

Peeling away the covering, I found myself staring at a naked woman, her palms pressed protectively against her chest. Breast of Both Worlds: Navigating Desire and Openness in Marriage sprawled across the top.

“What do you think?”

Curiously, I asked, “What is it?”

“This is a memoir by Aisling Pemberton. Together with her husband, they had dreams of starting a family, but medical tests revealed her infertility. At 46, the same age as you are now, Aisling faced the reality of not leaving a child as part of her legacy.”

Olivia adjusted her glasses and recited from the book’s dust jacket: “Overwhelmed by resurfacing feelings of guilt, resentment, and inadequacy, and having only ever been intimate with her husband, a sense of unfulfillment began to emerge. Determined, she convinced him to temporarily open their relationship, allowing exploration of personal challenges. This choice initiated a profound spiritual journey, prompting reflection on life lessons: the decisions made, regrets, achievements, values, and the quest to embrace physical womanhood beyond the confines of marriage.”

“Are you trying to tell me something? I could never ask Brian for a redo of our wedding vows.”

“I’m not saying to do it; I’m saying to read it.”

…

Olivia left, and I sat staring at the cover, wondering what consequences awaited me once I opened it. But open it I did. I read the first few pages and was hooked. I lost all sense of time until Brian stepped into the kitchen. Frantically scrambling, I closed Aisling’s memoir and stashed it in my purse.

Brian appeared somewhat baffled.

Immersed in my reading, dinner preparations slipped my mind. Some rapid mental agility led me to hastily fire up OpenTable, reserving a place on the fly at Tresca in the North End without arousing Brian’s suspicions.

“Honey, tonight we’re eating out. I didn’t think you would mind wining and dining me on my birthday.”

“Oh my God. Happy birthday, darling,” he said, clearly ashamed of his failure to remember.

As time passed, the notion of us as a cohesive unit faded, replaced in conversation by ‘Have you seen Sarah?’ or ‘Where is Brian today?’

We were electrically charged particles, positive and negative ions binding the essence of two passionate beings deeply in love together. With the passage of time, the once vibrant forces weakened, stretching thin, and the distance between us grew. I was willing to follow him to the core of the earth and back, albeit steadily lagging further behind.

Tresca was our go-to restaurant for Italian, and the wine was exquisite. The evening was special despite Brian’s lapse in memory, and he made every effort to atone for his misstep. My words forgave him, but a nagging hurt persisted in my heart. We decided to order biscotti to go, electing to enjoy it while taking in a movie at home.

I chose my favorite romcom, When Harry Met Sally, the night putting me in the mood. We snuggled on the couch, but twenty minutes into the film, Brian was asleep. I finished both almond cookies and cried when Harry ultimately confessed his love for Sally.

The night ended as a romantic dud. I gave Brian a peck on the cheek and said, “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

…

My eyes fluttered open around one o’clock, unaware of the exact moment Brian had climbed into bed. I stared at the ceiling for an hour, unable to sleep. Picking up Aisling’s memoir from the nightstand, I sat up and read until five, finishing her journey alongside her.

To her friends she was Annie, and I was now a member of her inner circle.

Awaking early to prepare Brian’s breakfast, I couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia’s gift.

Was I capable of following in Annie’s footsteps? Opening a dialogue would be dangerous, and I didn’t want a divorce.

As I peered at those rich golden yolks sizzling in the skillet, I had the strange sensation that they were watching me — like a pair of glassy orbs, privy to my thoughts, judging me as I considered the option of non-monogamy.

My spatula resolved that problem without delay.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

A face could launch a thousand ships.

But one sentence might register a 9.0 on the Richter scale of relationships, sending the trusted edifices of marriage crumbling into dust. The air filled with unrelenting tension, total silence in the aftermath.

Change was inevitable from that point on.

Broaching this as a reality rather than just a topic for late-night pillow talk might well come at a cost.

“A cost. How much of a cost?” Was I willing to accept it “at any cost?”

If Brian approached me requesting to start seeing other women, would I say, “Sure, honey, let me introduce you to that adorable girl across the street with the pushed-up nose and purple ombre hair. You know, the one with the cute derriere and firm bosom you keep looking at.”

Not on your life. I’d take this cast iron paddle and these two unfertilized free-range ova, then, in my best forehand, place it right at the fork in the sacred junction of his manly thighs, ensuring a clear message was delivered to his ‘boys.’

I subscribe to the notion that women have two birthrights: the first is the right to change their mind, and the second is to a double standard. Of course, not admitting to this unless bamboo shoots and fingernails were somehow involved.

…

Brian finished eating and gave me my regimented morning peck on the cheek and an “I’ll see you tonight.”

Now was the time to rally the troops. I laid Annie next to the computer and sent out a call for Zhu. We had become the three musketeers — with breasts.

“If I can’t even get laid on my birthday, I owe it to myself to put out some feelers,” I thought.

When Brian slipped his matrimonial band on my finger and I said, “I do,” I gave my word of fidelity, not celibacy.

Unlike Annie, my intention was not to broaden my sexual encounters by experiencing many different partners or to work through unanswered personal questions.

At some point, everyone pauses to reflect on their life, reevaluating past decisions and seeking a deeper purpose. However, unveiling new truths about myself would be like pulling on a loose thread — never reaching the answer before ending up with a jumbled ball of yarn, the equivalent of discovering a new phenomenon in astrophysics, light-years away in the distant corners of my mind. Each discovery calls into question and challenges accepted paradigms.

I wanted — no, I needed — intimacy. Just once to feel my flesh and blood pressed against sweaty masculine humanity. To become intoxicated by male pheromones, craving the union of two bodies becoming one.

Seeking out second opinions on open marriage and trying to comprehend the full scope of this sexual freedom and its effects on matrimony, I ultimately arrived at the conclusion that, yes, I could do this following a conversation with Brian. But my immediate need was some freelance passion.

I created my first hookup profile on OkCupid, ❤️Broken.

Annie struck a balance. While her story was personal, she wasn’t advocating her choices to those around her.

It was she who suggested, “Have you considered an escort?”

Yes, I had. It checked all the boxes but was cost-prohibitive; it was a non-starter.

“How do you feel about becoming an escort?” Gag me with a spoon!

Don’t Let the Green Grass Fool You floated into my ear. I swear Zhu was singing a duet with Elles Bailey.

There was an instant of hesitation. I blushed, and a slight trembling in my fingers began as I started crafting my first ‘Question.’

Married 46 Underappreciated in all aspects.

If U Think U Know Me take the test

French wine or French fries Emily Brontë or Nora Roberts Beatles or Stones A dip in the lake or toes curled in beach sand

Class over

❤️Broken

I hit send and immediately went into panic mode. This was genuine, not some wet dream with a strapping hunk. Strange noises started emanating from my churning stomach as I fixated on the screen. My words were whirling around the planet at light speed. I cried. Annie gave me a hug. I had crossed my first line.

Hours later, I experienced my inaugural “ding.”

Delete. Some aggravating God’s gift to women with an attitude.

Over the next three hours, there were four more alerts. The last one intrigued me.

Well, heartbroken, I crammed all night for this exam

A glass of Bordeaux with waffle fries and spicy brown mustard Ellis Bell Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da I can curl your toes anywhere

Did I pass, teacher? 🙋‍♂️🙋‍♂️

jilted45

Ha! Ha! He knew that Ellis Bell was Emily Brontë’s pen name, and even his two put your hands up and show me emojis answered the question from my favorite song. I believe that you do know me. I don’t feel so lonely now. It seems a suitable candidate has been identified.

You passed with flying colors ⭐

❤️Broken

I sat anxiously waiting for a reply, my palms sweating, but my cursor never budged. I jumped when I finally heard my long-awaited ‘ding.’

Does the teacher have a lunch break?

The star pupil is buying

jilted45

Lunch only.

How about noon next Wednesday at Café Luna?

❤️Broken

How will I know it’s you?

jilted45

Look for the lady with the forlorn expression

But how will I recognize you?

❤️Broken

A single yellow rose on the table,

in front of an empty chair, awaiting a sad miss

jilted45

My knees were shaking.

The deal was done. A second line crossed.

…

I walked into Café Luna dressed in a gray business outfit over a ruffled white blouse, nervous but composed, knowing there would be no obligation for me to drop my panties today.

The rose was there, anticipating my arrival. As I moved toward the table, he stood and stepped to my chair, pulling it out for me to sit.

“Thank you,” I said as I restlessly adjusted myself in my seat, smiling.

“No more sad face?” he said playfully. “My name is….”

Raising a finger, I cut him short. “No names… not yet.”

He nodded, acknowledging my request.

The waitress set waters down in front of us, and we placed our lunch orders. He selected the Chicken Taco Salad, and I went with a Grilled Sweet Potato Panini.

Noticing a button on the lapel of his tailored suit, I commented, “Boston College?”

He lowered his chin to inspect the pin affixed there. “Go Eagles! Did you attend school here in Boston?”

“A Terrier. By way of New Jersey,” I answered. “But it seemed the ice was always tilted toward our goal when we played you.”

“Except in the Beanpot,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Touché.”

The initial conversation was cordial. We spoke about sports, literature, music, and, naturally, history. As our comfort levels slowly evolved, defenses lowered, and we began to reveal more personal sentiments and experiences.

Telling him of my frustrations with Brian, he then relayed that his wife had admitted to just ending a year-long affair.

“It wasn’t her infidelity that hurt as much as when she said, ‘I don’t love you anymore,’ stoically, without any semblance of emotion. She was already packed and flew back to her childhood home in Chicago the next day.”

The hours passed pleasantly, and it was time for us to leave.

“Ok,” I said. “Names now, but first only. I’m Sarah.”

“Marc.” And we shook hands.

I was comfortable with Marc’s company. We had assets to offer each other mutual support, both physical and emotional. I was crossing into dangerous territory, sidestepping through an uneven field of landmines. I knew I had to be mindful of my footing, as he was someone I could see myself falling for.

“Now that we have been formally introduced… would you do me the official honor of having lunch?”

Laughing, we made arrangements to meet here next week, again for lunch. But this time, more than ‘just’ lunch.

…

As the day drew closer to my second get-together with Marc, an intensifying combination of exhilaration and guilt began to consume me. I was more attentive to Brian, walking on eggshells, and if he detected a change, he kept it to himself.

Tuesday morning, I prepared the usual bowl of Old-Fashioned Steel-Cut Rolled Oats and a mug of French press, setting them on the granite countertop.

Sitting, I lifted the lid of my laptop and, for the first time since Marc and I had lunch, signed into my OkCupid account.

Purging a week’s worth of responses, I found two from Marc. The first thanked me for the wonderful time he enjoyed during lunch last Wednesday. The second expressed his anticipation for tomorrow.

“You took the words right out of my mouth. But this time, look for the woman with the sparkling smile, bursting with excitement,” I mused to myself as my phone signaled the arrival of a new message — from Brian.

“Don’t make any plans for tonight.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“You’ll see.”

“Ok. There is something I wanted to talk to you about too.”

“Be ready when I get home. Dress Casual.”

I was clueless as to what he had in mind.

…

When he opened the door, I had to take a step back, swept away by the heady fragrance of burgundy roses.

“What’s the occa — ” I was never able to finish the sentence.

Taking my hand, he pulled me behind him, and I barely managed to keep my balance as we rushed to the car.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, Brian opened the door and guided me to my seat. My expression was one of utter bewilderment.

The more I asked where we were going, the only response he gave was, “Patience.”

We drove along the water through Chelsea. Over the rooftops of the apartment buildings, I spotted the vaguely visible arc of the top of a Ferris wheel — a traveling carnival, food, games, rides, and even the cheerful melodies of a calliope.

We had not strolled a midway together since Coney Island.

Brian maintained his hold on my hand as we walked the grounds, gorging ourselves on fried corn dogs, cotton candy, and oversized cream puffs.

We rode the teacups, the roller coaster, and, as expected, the Ferris wheel.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” he asked.

“Ah… that,” I stammered, my brain simultaneously processing a litany of possible responses. “Olivia came by and told me that the wife of a friend of hers admitted to ending a year-long affair. She left him and returned home to Chicago.”

“Oh.” Then, in a solemn undertone, he said, “Tell Olivia that I am sorry to hear that.”

His arm encircling my waist, we stood in line behind young couples who couldn’t keep their mitts off one another for one final ride. He accompanied me into the gondola for a journey through the darkened canal of the Tunnel of Love.

When we rounded the corner into the pitch blackness, Brian’s arm went to my shoulder and pulled me tight, as if he thought I might try to escape. As the boat meandered along the channel, the darkness filled with the gravelly sound of Tom Waits singing Jersey Girl, avowing his affections for the one he believed beyond his reach. With raw authenticity, his streetwise voice spoke of a life in dimly lit bars and back alleys in his own distinctive manner. Incredibly blessed, he was the most fortunate man alive.

Zhu washed her hands of playing any role in this.

I turned, guiding Brian’s head to mine, drawing our lips together, and feeling the warmth of his tears on my cheeks.

The evening was magical. When we arrived home, Brian rapidly spun me to face him. Fixing me with a soulful gaze, he held up his hand. “Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear?” I said.

“Come on. Pinky swear,” he replied. I looped my finger with all my pinky might around his, and we sealed a pact to explore one carnival every year: to share a sticky cotton candy kiss, swap ice cream facials, and ride the tunnel of love.

Brian smacked my butt, grabbed both of my hips, and marched me straight into the bedroom. That night, we became one once again; he asserted his role as my man, and I as his woman.

…

The next morning, he gave me a familiar peck on the cheek before backing me against the wall. Half an hour later, our bodies separated, and he said, “I’ll see you tonight,” a devilish tone to his voice. With faces inches apart, we shared a silent acknowledgment of mistakes made, reaffirmed our love, sought forgiveness, and galvanized the commitment we had to one another.

My arms locked Brian in a stranglehold, and I murmured into his ear, “I’m counting the minutes.”

I was seeking to unravel the events of yesterday. What had changed in us? Had Brian stumbled across Breast of Both Worlds, or did a familiar acquaintance notice me at Café Luna? Maybe he had just terminated a liaison of his own. I had no desire to know and, frankly, didn’t care. I was not going to start pulling at the loose end of that thread. What mattered above all else was the end result.

I signed back into OkCupid. I had one more thing to do: I sent Marc a message.

Marc, I am so sorry. I will not be able to meet you today.

It’s hard to explain, but my old Brian is back.

I had truly looked forward to this afternoon, so please don’t presume I was leading you on.

Knowing you for the few hours that I did,

believe me when I say that you will find the one person you are destined to spend your life with.

❤️Broken

I added a beating heart and blew him a kiss emoji, then deleted my profile.

I heard Zhu serenading in the background, To Love Somebody.

I considered myself one of the lucky ones. I found a lifelong companion, or more precisely, he found me and melted my heart. But even soulmates can gradually grow distant. Thankfully, before the divide between us expanded beyond the reach of our devotion, we recognized that we had arrived at a pivotal moment. We were teetering on the brink of recklessly letting go of twenty-four treasured years, never having the opportunity to compose the final verse of our lifelong odyssey as ‘Brian and Sarah.’

I recalled my mother, sitting despondent at the kitchen table. In time, she revealed the closely guarded secret that had been kept from me: engaged to be married after college, she developed cold feet and called off the wedding at the last minute. A parting letter was tucked inside a copy of The Feminine Mystique and placed at her fiancé’s door, professing love while expressing the fear of losing her identity and then disappearing without another word. The guilt was so profound that facing him again became impossible. When I asked if her sorrow was for the lost relationship or the way she ended it, there was no reply.

I hugged all 288 pages of Annie’s memoir, saddened that she and her husband had gone off in different directions a year later. But twelve months of sexual and emotional freedom set her life in motion, and ‘an object in motion tends to remain in motion.’

I occasionally thought of Marc and that afternoon that wasn’t. If I were to be totally honest, I had more in common with Annie than I dared to admit when Olivia first introduced us.

There’s a lingering question I keep pondering: If Avery ever turned to me for insights on how to talk to her husband about the possibility of opening their marriage, what guidance might I offer her? I believe I would follow the example set by my ‘adopted sister,’ give Avery my copy of Breast of Both Worlds, and mention to her, “Olivia recommends this.”