It is not at all unusual for me to fancy myself an adulteress, to indulge in the idle and illicit daydream of what I should do in the highly unlikely and unfortunate circumstance that another man should fall in love with me. I have gone so far as to prepare a speech, a sweet, simple thing that I will no doubt recite after he has stolen a kiss, a kiss that I, dependent upon my mood at the time of the daydream, either return without thought, motivated entirely by animal need, or accept reluctantly, lips fat with guilt.
"I do like you, but I love my husband very much."
If I am feeling particularly generous, which I often am in my imaginings, a world entirely without consequences, I explain that were I not married, I would certainly pursue a relationship with said fanciable man. This is no kindness, not even in the abstract reality of my mind, but I say it anyway. I do not want to be cruel but I revel in that opportunity as much as I do in the thrill of fictional romance. I have never slapped someone for impertinence, never snuck out of my house at night for secret liasons - even though my bedroom as a girl had a door that lead immediately outside. For all my happiness I wonder if I didn't live enough before I settled, however eagerly, down.
Sometimes I think such things are better left unwritten if one can't feel sorry for them.
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