Thursday, January 20, 2011

Just friends...maybe.

You and I talk every day, first thing in the morning when we come to work. We talk about all sorts of things: books, food, our kids, our friends, even a little about sex here and there. I think your husband is a great guy; you think my wife is terrific. But we would like to fuck each other and we both know it. And it will never happen.

But I like this. We like this. We are both happy with the person we're with, and we both get lots of sex at home, and yet we are both happy talking every morning and living with the pleasant subtext of what might have been if the butterfly had flapped its wings two seconds later.

You don't know that I fantasize about taking you in your running clothes on your kitchen table, but you do know you're safe around me — I'm not going to gush out my undying love (lust?) for you. I know I'm safe around you for the same reason (though I wonder how you think we'd fuck). Our 10 minutes together over coffee every morning before work are 10 minutes we both look forward to before we go to bed. Not entirely unlike sex.

We've never spoken of this, of course, and we never will. I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining it. This is just how a friendship between a man and a woman must play out sometimes.

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