It means that Monday night, after we kiss furiously in your office and I give you the raunchiest lap dance ever, you can kiss me between my thighs while laying me out on your desk and then drive home to your wife and kids.

It means me not sleeping at all Monday night for thinking of you.  You stay up taking care of your kids.

It means Tuesday morning I literally read you a list of my thoughts, one of which is I know I’m hurting other people.  You say nothing.  You feel *that* would be inappropriate.

It means Tuesday afternoon, after mentioning that spot on your desk and flirting with me, you want me to masturbate for you.   You were so turned on, your legs were shaking.  SHAKING.  We start having sex.  Then, you stop.  You mumble something under your breathe and I can’t tell if you just said your wife’s name.   But, you cum on me and later say “thank you.” When I say “any time,” you reply with “don’t say that.”

It means Wednesday, you push me way.  You later say it’s to be “protective.”   When I’m at my most vulnerable, after I’ve done things with you I typically don’t do for others, after I’ve opened myself up body, mind, and soul, you receded.   When I need reassurance the most, you are not there.  You do what you want.

It means I cry in your office, while you try to crack jokes.

It means I have to ask you if I mean *anything,* if I even Matter.   You never have to ask that question.

It means that when I went out a date last night,  all I could think of was the way you kiss.  Meanwhile, you were working in your office.

It means sitting in a meeting with you and smelling your scent.  You take notes on the meeting.

It means I feel utterly alone as I curl up in my bed each night.  You get to curl up to your son or your wife.

It means no one, especially myself, has sympathy for me for I walked into this situation.   But, I can’t stop thinking about the way you taste. 

It means that I can’t stop thinking how I’ll never ever be good enough.  I’ll never ever be good enough for you.  That no matter what I do or how I try to make you happy, I’m not her.  And you tell me you “can’t imagine anyone” that would take away the life you have.

I’m not her.

I don’t get to have you.

I don’t get to have you talking to me a few times a day at work, discussing the kids or what you want for dinner, and calling me “Babe” or “Pumpkin.”

I don’t get the concern, or monikers,  or plans, or wishes, or shoulder rubs, or kindness for being the mother of your kids, or hope and dreams. 

I’m will always be awarded the 4th or 5th place ribbon in a race I’ll never ever win.

(It must be nice being you – so handsome and tall and put together.   Your parents loved you from day 1 and they stayed together; you never had to doubt that.  You have a great education. You met the love of your life when you were 19 and have been together almost 20 years.  You have a joke for everything.  People look you in the eye.  You spend each holiday surrounded by people who think the world of you, both your family and hers.  You have great kids.  People like you; you’ve never had to doubt that.  It must be great being you. It sucks being me.)