By Elizabeth Sharpe

Iwas pouring myself another glass of wine when he said it. He couldn’t have been more blunt: “I would have sex with you.” I stopped pouring, slowly turned around and stared at him silently for 10 seconds.

“What?” I said. I couldn’t have heard him right.  It was 3 a.m.  His wife and three kids were upstairs sleeping. That glass of wine was one of many that night. Maybe I was just imagining things—imagining what part of me wanted to hear because I was attracted to him. And he knew it. 

“I would have sex with you,” he repeated.  “But I’m not going to.”

We had been at a work party on that hot, sticky July night—a retirement party for his boss. Afterward he, his wife (who I truly like) and I went to another bar and then back to their house. She went to bed. We continued to drink. And then drink some more.

So now it was out there. An acknowledgement of the sexual attraction we both felt every day while we sat side by side, legs touching, leaning over each other and analyzing the layout of the magazine we both work for. The attraction that even other people saw—a co-worker had just told us that night (while his wife stood 10 feet away) that she saw sparks between us.

“Well, I’m not going to have sex with you either,” I replied, unsure of what else I should say. I meant it. I don’t sleep with married men. Although, based on many past experiences, those are the men who want to sleep with me. But deep down I was thrilled that he said it; because even though I had no plans to have sex with him (or do anything else for that matter), I felt validated.

I hadn’t always been attracted to him. We had worked together almost a year before it happened. He wasn’t unattractive, but he also wasn’t exactly the type who would make a girl weak in the knees. Half of the time I thought he was an arrogant bastard who took out his bad moods on everyone else. We fought about twice a week. When we weren’t fighting, we got along well. Not exactly close friends, but friendly enough that when we realized we only lived two blocks from each other it made sense to go get a drink together.

That first night we went out was the night I fell for him and everything changed. I denied it for a while but eventually admitted to myself that I had a serious crush. I couldn’t wait to see him every day. All of a sudden I was totally self-conscious about what I wore (which was pretty ironic considering he always looked like he threw on whatever was lying on his floor when he got up in the morning), what I said and how to keep him from realizing that I had suddenly become infatuated. Obviously, that last part didn’t work out for me too well.

The day after our 3 a.m. conversation, I was supposed to go to my parents’ house for my niece’s baptism. I had a 10 p.m. flight and he suggested I come by after work for a drink before I left. I arrived and discovered that his wife had taken the kids camping for a week. That was OK, I told myself. It was just one drink. He had plans to go to a concert with some friends, and I had a plane to catch. But one drink turned into two and two turned into three. His friends came by to pick him up for the concert, and he decided not to go. Then I called and changed my flight to one that left the next morning. I didn’t want anything to happen, but I didn’t want to leave either. And nothing did happen. At about midnight the topic of us sleeping together came up again, with both of us vehemently saying we never would.

The rest of the summer passed this way. He would call me about once a week and ask me to meet him for a drink. I eventually came to realize that he actually would sleep with me if I agreed. My friends had been telling me this for weeks, but I denied it, claiming he had just put it out there to acknowledge our attraction so we could both move on. Acknowledging his true intentions would be acknowledging what a total sleaze he truly was, and I wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

So I continued to meet him each time he called. One night, when his wife was in Cape Cod with the kids (that woman needed to stop leaving her husband alone!), he asked me to meet him and a friend at a neighborhood bar. He couldn’t hit on me in front of his friend, I rationalized. But not only did he hit on me, he also had his friend and the bartender try to convince me that we should sleep together just once. Just to get it out of our systems. I laughed it off. Then he crossed the line.

“I love you,” he said.

I felt sick to my stomach. He didn’t love me, and I sure as hell didn’t love him. I was disgusted with myself and disgusted with him. I couldn’t believe that I had let things get to that point. I got up and left the bar. The next day he called and told me he didn’t remember anything. I’m not that naive.

So I let things drift apart. His position has changed so we no longer work directly together. He works from home now, and I don’t seem him every day. I still don’t hate him—although all my friends do. What he did was wrong, but I need to tell myself that there was something good about him that I was attracted to. Maybe not. Maybe I only wanted him because a relationship was impossible—just like with nearly every other man I’ve ever been attracted to.

More than anything I’m ashamed with myself. His wife is a beautiful, smart and truly good woman. She didn’t deserve to be treated with such disrespect—even if she had no idea she was being disrespected. Sadly, in the end, what I learned is that people never truly know what goes on when they’re not around.
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