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Overcome, I texted the woman all my questions in rapid succession. For a time, then, as I sat in the crowded barroom, excitedly checking and re-checking the strain of her texts until I was positively certain that when she said "no1s home here, we shud chill…" she didn't just want me to come over to eat Nutella and argue about the Kardashians, I began to think of my potential sordid encounter in grandly delusional terms. She retracted, for the moment, her invitation. I looked at my phone. I was beginning to get strange looks from the bartender.

Married woman sexting


After all, unlike in literature, where the adulterers become objects of scorn, victims of hubris, tragic symbols of human frailty or society's failing, in real life things are far less grand. But decline I did not — for I was already feeling a bit lonely myself that night, and was decidedly drunk. I had some clues: Like this woman did, I will pretend not to be aware of my own hypocrisy. I made a joke — I'm sure it was devilishly funny — and she rested her hand on my leg. The woman had texted me a picture of herself, along with assertion that she likes to "break rules. We sat there like that for a minute. Here I was assuming myself to be some kind of meaningful main character, when in fact, I, more than anyone, know that I am about as interesting as a wet sandwich. In other words, if Anna Karenina were a real person in today's world she may not have found reason to lie across the train tracks. Either way, the plot was way over my head, and it was time for me to leave. The after-party would be so dull but I'd like to think that I am not the type of person to go through with something so selfish as an affair. Up to this point, I had always thought of myself as a fairly decent person — at least in the shallower, more observable metrics. Of course, the literary justification was absurd. Maybe the strains of everyday life had her feeling used up; washed out; desperate for some diversion from a life of routine and constant attention to other people's needs — even if that diversion would find form in a prolix blogger. What went through her mind these days, when, approaching 40, she and her husband fought loudly in the kitchen at night, pots and pans clanging, their children in their bedrooms burying their heads in the pillows? For a time, then, as I sat in the crowded barroom, excitedly checking and re-checking the strain of her texts until I was positively certain that when she said "no1s home here, we shud chill…" she didn't just want me to come over to eat Nutella and argue about the Kardashians, I began to think of my potential sordid encounter in grandly delusional terms. I put my drink on the bar, smiled as earnestly as a drunken man can, and told her the truth. What would she have thought, at 23, if she could see what in the future lay? Maybe they were both alone; maybe just she was. She retracted, for the moment, her invitation. This woman, with her children, husband and life, contained layers I could never hope to understand. I looked at my phone. I couldn't tell if this were her story or mine. I expressed my thoughts on the matter to my roommate one seat over, who had been strongly insisting throughout the night that I both end my illicit conversation and stop giggling like a pre-teen. I don't know why, but at that moment, my brain's well-lubricated gears locked into place, and things became clear.

Married woman sexting

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3 thoughts on “Married woman sexting”

Grolabar

13.09.2018 at 10:12 pm
Reply

Did she and her husband love each other still, if only just a little? Either way, the plot was way over my head, and it was time for me to leave.

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