Three Hours

         She tried to think logically as she talked to this man who was not her husband.
         He was gorgeous -- his gray eyes, his curly shaggy dark red hair, his impish smile.
         He made her laugh -- It had been ages since her husband made her laugh. She felt giddy as she engaged in fits of laughter with this man; this man who was not her husband.
         She had met him three hours before, at a casual get together at a mutual friend's house. He caught her attention when he recognized the obscure television show reference on her tee shirt. They talked inside, and then moved outside where the cool air brushed against her burning face as they sat in the gazebo in her friend's back yard. Everyone else was inside, they were alone.
         Her husband, she thought bitterly, who, after only six short years of marriage seemed to have lost interest in her would not approve of her sitting, talking to this man, sharing all they had in common. Her husband claimed he still loved her, but he never showed it. He only showed it on the rare occasions when he wanted her physically. He claimed he still desired her, but any evidence of that truth was fleeting.
         When they first married, they had a fierce passion for each other. Gradually, after their son was born her husband seemed more aloof. Everytime she attempted to talk to him about it, he promised to be more attentive, but it never lasted.
         She still deeply loved her husband, but felt the pain that one feels when gestures of love are not reciprocated with equal emotion.
         The thoughts she had about this man, the man who wasn't her husband, had nothing to do with love. She wondered how it would feel to press her lips against his, to feel his slender body pressed against her soft, round bosom in a forbidden embrace.
         She tried to push the thoughts from her mind. No, she did love her husband too much to do this.
         But that smile...
         No, even if you weren't married, there's no way he would want you, she reminded her self. You got lucky to catch such a handsome husband, but this man would have no interest. Look at his friends, the women in the house. They're all slim, smart, and he would prefer that to you. You're fat and uneducated, hardly a turn on for the likes of him.
         He was now telling a story about a video game he had played. It was very funny, they laughed together again for the umpteenth time that night.
         Lifting his hand to brush the hair out of his face, he inadvertently brushed against her hand. She felt her heart rate jump, to feel his flesh against hers, no matter how minute it was.
         He looked at his watch. It was getting late; he had a job interview in the morning. As he stood, she stood, resisting the urge to grab him and kiss him, plead him to take her. Damn every thing and just give into carnal pleasures.
         Instead she told him good bye, good luck, and it was a pleasure meeting him.
         Thank you, he responded, it was a pleasure meeting her too.
         They both went into the house and said goodnight to her friend.
         All the emotions -passion, anger, hurt, guilt- were built up inside of her. She cried on the drive home. She cried so hard her temples throbbed with the force of her sobs.
         She pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex where they lived and beat the steering wheel until her hand hurt.
         Once she was able to get her self together, she went home.
         She looked in on her son, looking tiny in his new bed. He was getting too big for the toddler bed, so they bought him a “big boy bed” last week. She kissed his tiny forehead, and marveled how much he looked like his father. This little boy was supposed to symbolize the love she and her husband felt. Realizing this caused a twinge of pain in her heart.
         In the room she shared with her husband, she slipped out of her jeans and into her pajama bottoms, not bothering to change her top. Her
husband snored softly, not so much as skipping a breath as she crawled into bed to acknowledge she was home.
         She closed her eyes thinking about him, the man who was not her husband, and wondered what might have been if she did not share a name and a bed with the man she felt she no longer knew.