I seek him out like I always do. In the art center lobby, he’s easy to spot, his blonde head high above the crowd, holding a beer, joking with another writer. I focus on his lips and how much his hair has grown the last two years.
Maybe he senses me. He looks up and our eyes dance—his gaze intensifies, mine goes soft-focus. We’ve never spoken, but I read his poetry to know him, and later tonight I’ll imagine how it feels to lean into his chest, to feel small in his arms.
I see his wife at the bar. He dedicates poems to her and writes about how she loved him even when he was broken.
As I turn away, I chant: “I’m sorry for coveting your husband, I’m sorry for coveting your husband, I’m sorry for coveting your husband.”
When I look up, I see his eyes searching mine.
I have already forgotten my apology.