I haven't seen him in ten years when we reconnect online. He asks if he can come over, but doesn't speak when I open my door and find him on the other side. No 'hello, nice to see you,' or 'how have you been?' He just steps inside my apartment and kisses me, pushing us backward, until I collide with the wall behind me. We almost knock one of my paintings from its hanger, but I can't control where I land with his hands pushing and grabbing like they are. I like it, and I crave more. My hands grapple across his back, holding him, tugging him closer, wishing he could be nearer than he already is. The only way he could be is if he were inside me, and that's exactly what I want.

This is how it begins.

He's married, and I should care but I don't. When he comes to my apartment, he leaves four kids and a wife at home, but I don't think about them. I can't. I know I only have part of him, but what we're doing isn't about love, so it doesn't matter. I tell myself that, but I look forward to the text messages I get throughout the day, even though sometimes I don't reply. I think he enjoys my aloof attitude towards him, because he comes over more often and stays longer every time.

We begin to talk more during his visits. He hardly ever shoves me against the wall in my foyer anymore, but I discover other things that excite me in different ways, even though I never admit it. He didn't graduate from high school, but impresses me with tales of books he's read, intricately explaining plot lines and characters in a way that make me feel that I've read them myself. He talks about his dreams, and hopes, and all the reasons he loves his family. I know providing for them is a struggle for him, and I think that's part of why he's here with me: as an escape. I never ask, but I know he won't leave his wife; that's not what this is about anyway. He brags about his children, shows me pictures, tells me how they're doing in school, and what their hobbies are. Once, he twists and turns in the sheets, pointing to this tattoo and that one, showing me the name of each child somewhere on his body. Her name is there, too, over his heart, but we don't mention it.

One night, before we fall into bed, I lean close and touch my cheek to his while he snaps a photo of us with his phone. I have many pictures of him. Some of his body, and others of his face. He's tall, blond and beautiful, with big eyes and full lips, but he never smiles in photos; he's too tough for that. But he smiles when we press our faces together. We look happy, and if anyone saw the picture, they'd think we were in love. Maybe I do love him, but I'd never admit it, to him or myself.

Sometimes we talk about high school, and I shyly admit that I wanted him even then. He reminds me of the time our coworkers the grocery store in our hometown let it slip that he was interested in me. After that, he snuck up behind me, while I had a line of customers waiting and wrapped his strong fingers around my bicep, pulling me close enough to whisper, "Come clean the bathrooms with me."

I blushed and bit my lip, stammered and nodded toward the line of people with cartloads of groceries, and shook my head. Later that night, I found myself in the cab of his pickup truck, my back pressed against the steering wheel, my skin slick with sweat both from the southern heat and the way his fingers teased me. It was exhilarating and scary to risk being caught in such a compromising position, but the parking lot was dark and deserted, and I was too enthralled by his touch to really care about anyone seeing us.

When I talk about that night, he pulls me up from the sofa and leads me to my room to show me what he wished he could do to me back then. He presses me into the mattress, twining his fingers through mine as he moves his hips, pushing me closer and closer to oblivion with each thrust. I try not to think about the way he's holding my hands, or the sweet, tender way he kisses me, but I can't help the new feelings that bubble up each time we're together. I'm angry at myself for being weak, and at him for needing me to be strong. Our relationship is snowballing dangerously, wrapping us both up and hurtling towards disaster. There is no way this can end well for either of us, but we don't stop. I continue to act as if I don't care, not always answering his messages, or phone calls, and he continues to chase me; always breaking down my defenses and always finding a way back in.

I hate him for it, but I love him, too.

I take a new job in a gallery, half an hour from my apartment. He's working out of town, and only coming in on weekends, so we don't see each other regularly anymore. I think things are going badly at home, and I wonder if his wife has found out about us. He still texts me, saying he misses me, but I don't reply often. One day, out of the blue, he comes by the gallery. It's obvious he came straight from work: his clothes are dirty, and he still has the bandana he wears under his hardhat tied around his head. He looks completely out of place inside the gallery, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the few visitors dressed in crisp, trendy clothes. I'm on the phone, behind my little desk, and I watch him while he meanders slowly through the gallery, pausing here and there to study the paintings and photos with mock interest. Maybe he is truly interested, but I can't tell. He waits patiently until I hang up, before slowly and conspicuously making his way towards me. I'm sure the others have noticed him, but they all ignore him, and I'm glad they're not staring when he leans enticingly against my desk and crosses his arms.

"Do you get a lunch break?" he asks, without so much as a 'hello.'

"Yes." I glance at my watch. "The owner should be here in forty minutes, or so, and I can go then."

"Meet me," he says, "at that bar up the road. It's called Lucky's."

"I don't know…" I've never been out in public with him, and having drinks sounds too much like a date for my liking.

"C'mon, it's just a drink. I miss you." He looks sad, and I find it difficult to tell him no.

"Fine," I sigh, and he smiles easily, flashing his straight, white teeth. He looks like a different person when he smiles like that.

"Great. See ya soon, babe." He winks, and turns, walking straight to the door and out into the wavering heat.

While I wait on my boss to arrive, I try thinking of ways to get out of meeting him, but I know I won't use them and I'm still berating myself when I park beside his beat up truck an hour later. The few other faces in the bar turn toward me when I walk through the door, and I feel immediately out of place. He's sitting at the far end, alone, and doesn't look my way like the others do. I ignore them and stride purposefully toward him, my heels clicking loudly against the linoleum. He turns to me when I climb onto the stool beside him, and gives me a lopsided grin. By now, I know his moods, and can tell he's down, but I only glance at him quickly and turn my eyes forward. He does the same.

We order bottles of beer, and sit side by side, neither of us saying anything. Finally he turns to me, and I allow myself to look his way, too. He leans close and presses his full mouth to mine, so gently it makes my heart hurt. He pulls back and touches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, before turning and signaling for another beer. His hand comes to rest on top of mine while the bartender comes our way slowly, eyeing us seriously while she places two more bottles on the bar in front of us.

"Y'all look awfully sad to be so in love," she says, and we look at her wordlessly. "Cheer up," she demands, and I want to tell her that we're not in love, but I think that might be a lie. She moves away, back to the other end of the bar, and he kisses me again.

"This is tough," he whispers, and I nod. I feel ridiculously close to tears, and I wonder how so much can pass between us without words.

"I know," I say. We both know what he means, and that we feel much more for each other than either of us care to admit. It also feels like the end and that hurts.

We keep drinking in silence, kissing occasionally, and every touch is tender and loaded with things we can't say to each other. Or maybe we just won't allow ourselves to say what we both know; I'm not sure, but either way, it's painful and I resent myself for allowing it to happen.

Soon, he says he has to leave. He got out of work early, but is expected at home, and I nod, looking at my hands while he pays for our drinks. There has been so much between us during the past year, so many things spoken and unspoken, and neither of us can deny the connection we have. Its friendship, lust, need, and so much more than I ever imagined would it would be the first night he came to my door.

We slide off our stools and I follow him outside. I feel sad, and not even the bartender calling after us brings a hint of a smile to my face. The air is hot and heavy, and the southern, afternoon sun bears down on us, so that I have to squint when I raise my chin to look at his face. He shades my eyes with his hand, and leans closer to whisper, "You know I love you, right?" and I nod. Again, I am stupidly close to tears for someone who doesn't feel anything.

"But I can't leave," he states.

"I know," I say. I'm angry, but not with him, or even her. The only one I can blame is myself.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs before kissing me.

"Don't be. We both knew what we were doing."

"I didn't think it would go this far," he says honestly, and I nod again.

"Neither did I."

"You're just so different…from other women. I've never met anyone like you. You're special, you know?"

"I guess," I mutter, concentrating on the way my shiny, navy nails peek out of the toes of my heels.

"Take care of yourself." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, kisses the corner of my mouth, and steps away.

I watch him climb into his truck and drive off, and what I never tell him is that I don't think he's different at all, or even special. But then again, I'm a liar.