Compared to my wife -- actually, compared to any woman -- Jackie was the consummate source of brightness in my life. I was captivated by her independence, her classiness, her beauty, her smile, her poise, her maturity, her humor, her confidence, the way she walked, the way she sat -- and by her breasts and her eyes and her feet and her waist and her hands and her lips and her knees and her shoulders and her ass and... Oh, was I bewitched by her!

We had been a foursome: Jackie and Sam, Christine and me. At their house or ours, in restaurants or bars, the four of us had gotten a little drunk, laughed, danced and enjoyed each other. But the pairings were wrong. It should have been Jackie and me, not Jackie and Sam. When I was introduced to Jackie and Sam my first reaction -- my first thought about her -- was that she was married to the wrong man. It should have been me. Sam and my wife could have had each other for all I cared; I wanted Jackie.

I had been infatuated with other women in the past, often imagining myself with them instead of Christine. My marriage had been flawed for years. Christine and I were not a good fit. We had married young, long before we knew enough about people to make a good choice, long before we were mature enough to understand the way a marriage should work. Our personalities and habits and inhibitions meshed badly, grinding little bits of metal from our emotional gears, wearing our relationship.

But things were to be as they were. Jackie seemed content in her marriage. I had a wife, children and debts. If Jackie wanted change there were much better choices for her. I wanted change, but the process that would be required to achieve it perplexed and intimidated me. It was laden with complexity that I couldn't unravel.

It seemed all I had were my fantasies about her.

Still...

Things had happened, things I wanted to take as signals from Jackie. There was the dancing. There had been moments when we danced that the pressure of her breasts against my chest and the feel of the small of her back under my hand aroused me, and on several occasions, emboldened by alcohol, I pressed my hardened cock against her. She did not pull away.

There were the kisses. When we danced, the dance always ended with a kiss -- even the times when I'd pressed myself against her. I preferred believing these weren't "thanks for the dance" kisses; I wanted to believe they were "I like you" kisses instead. They were still quick simple little pecks, but my imagination made them into something more than they might have been.

There was my birthday gift. Jackie gave me a mirror with butterflies on it. It was a little girl's toy, a music box, and the butterflies moved when the music was playing. But the song it played was "You Light Up My Life." I wanted to believe Jackie was giving me a subtle hint with this gift.

Were these signals real or imagined? I did not have the perception to know, and I lacked the courage to find out. Instead, I remained slumped in melancholy: a condition that characterized my life in those times.

One day something happened. I will never know what it was, but for some reason Christine suddenly developed an intense dislike for Jackie and Sam. This was a pattern; it had happened with other couples. No doubt there was some real or imagined slight that caused it, but once done, it seemed the effect was forever irreversible, and Christine would steadfastly refuse to discuss the matter.

I was disappointed. I was sure it was my wife's own emotional flaws that wrecked the relationship and I was resentful and angry with her for it.

Opportunities to spend time with Jackie were gone. I continued my life, missing her. I thought of her often but I didn't call her, afraid she would simply dismiss me.

After several months Jackie called me at my office to tell me she had mailed me a draft of her resume and she would like me to help her with it. She felt her career was being stifled and needed a change. When the resume arrived I called Jackie and suggested lunch.

It was a long lunch. Although we did discuss her resume our conversation soon drifted to other things. In a quick simple confession, Jackie told me her marriage was over. "I threw Sam out," she said, "and I changed the locks. Our divorce should be final in a month."

I had never known of troubles between them. I immediately imagined this as an opportunity to confess my feelings to her. If I told her how I felt the worst that would happen would be a continuation of the current situation: I simply wouldn't have any opportunities to be with her.

I suggested that we move from the restaurant to the bar. Fortified by a drink or two I confessed my obsession, hoping to open a door. Heart pounding, I said, "You know, all those times we got together as a foursome were magical times, but for me the magic was Jackie, not Jackie and Sam."

When Jackie smiled she sometimes pressed her teeth together and cocked her jaw a little, adding a delightful twist to an already beautiful grin. After my blurted confession her light blue eyes locked on mine and she made that smile. And then she leaned across the narrow table and kissed me. This was a different kiss. Her lips softened and opened as they met mine, in a simple but eloquent signal. We kissed again when we parted that afternoon, a long full kiss, tongues meeting briefly as we stood and held each other.

The following day I flipped a coin. I remember standing behind my desk, digging out a quarter and flipping it in the air. Heads I would ask her out, tails I wouldn't. I don't remember how the coin fell. The idea wasn't to let the coin make the decision for me; it was to find out if I would be disappointed by the result. I called her, of course. She agreed without hesitation and suggested a restaurant. She said she would meet me there.