I Slept With Your Husband
I slept with your husband. I meant for it to happen. I don’t regret it. We plan on doing it again.
He tells me he loves me. He tells me I’m special and that he wants me forever. I can tell that he loves me, but not like he loves you. He married you. He promised to spend the rest of his life with you. To have and to hold, from that day forward.
I envy you. I get a few hours when you’re at work and he doesn’t have to explain his whereabouts. You get a lifetime of cuddling on the couch, cute dinner dates and brunch on Sunday morning. You get to hold hands in the mall and fight over stupid things like changing your cat’s litter box.
I want your husband to love me like he loves you. But that’s part of the fun, I suppose. I have something that I am not allowed to have. He’s forbidden and maybe that is why I want him. I’m forbidden and maybe that’s why he wants me.
I guess I should apologize for being the other woman. I’m sorry to have caused your husband to break his marriage vows. I’m sorry that if you ever found out about me, it’d break your heart and cause you to doubt everything you knew about love. I’m sorry for giving into temptation.
Or maybe I should apologize for your husband. Maybe I just happened to be the one who he slept with because he never intended to remain faithful to you. If not me, there would be someone else? Maybe that’s how I justify this relationship when the guilt becomes overwhelming.
I wonder what’s so wrong in your marriage that he’d do this to you. Is there not enough sex? Not enough good sex? Are you working too many hours? Is your husband just incapable of controlling his urges? I can’t imagine that your marriage is healthy, whether that’s your fault or his.
Maybe I shouldn’t apologize because I plan to continue sleeping with your husband. I don’t know how to feel. I’ve never done this before. He makes me feel good when I’m with him, not just sexually. His smile sends shivers down my spine and his laugh makes my heart warm.
I love him. But he will always be yours.
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