I think this is one topic that is totally frowned upon. I want to write about it. I don’t know where to begin. So in the meantime I read about it. And share with you.
Friends and fellows and lovely ladies,
I beg you not to fall in love with a married man.
When he looks at you, your skin turns hot. When he kisses you, you feel it in your elbows, your toes. Your cheek against his cheek. The barometric pressure dropping when your fingers touch.
The people who love you say you deserve better.
You’ve never made out in so many cabs, steadying yourself to keep your cheekbones safe from plexiglass. You go all over the city, throwing back oysters at fancy places and wrapping yourselves in parts of each other—legs in legs, fingers in fingers.
He can write you love letters but you can’t reciprocate, lest they be discovered. You can take pictures of him, rolling up his sleeves and squinting into the sunlight, but there can be no pictures of you together, faces close, eyes shiny.
You dream about the wife…
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