Fidelity.

I offered to meet you somewhere, bring along a deck of cards or something, because I guess there was a part of me that already knew we were headed for some kind of trouble. “No,” you said, “let me come and get you - I have a bottle of wine I’ll just drink alone and I’m sure I could cobble together some kind of meal.”

“Sure,” I said. Sure.

It wasn’t just the one bottle, but the soup was really good.

I beat you at Scrabble again, and again, and we talked about the book I was reading (you found me in the stacks at the library, that’s how this whole thing came about) and about my current obsession with Alfred Russell Wallace and evolutionary theory and we talked about the Pixies and John Cusack and you told me your wife didn’t like High Fidelity.

Neither of us had cash for a cab, and I think we both knew what a monumentally bad idea it was for me not to leave, so we talked away another Scrabble game to wait long enough for you to drive me back.

I shook out my hair from its clip, and you said, “Jesus. What kind of shampoo do you use?” I knew what we both wanted, so I asked, “What kind does your wife use?”

“Nothing that smells like that,” you answered.

We were facing the Sound in the silent car, and if there had been even a sliver of moon we would have been able to see the water and the mountains beyond, but the clouds were heavy.

“I don’t think I should kiss you.” Your voice broke while you were saying it.

“Okay. I know.” I did know, and in the next moment your hand was in my hair.

“I thought you said you shouldn’t,” I whispered. I was trying so hard to make light of it, but it came out sultry.

“I definitely shouldn’t.” But then you did.

Maybe I should have tried to stop you, exert a little self-control, hold your wife in my mind for just a moment longer, but your fingers tightened on my scalp, your breath was on my cheek, the clouds broke for a second, the moon threw light on the water. Maybe I should have turned down that second bottle of wine, the offer of dinner, the tie-breaking round. Maybe I should have pointed out that perhaps High Fidelity wasn’t a priority at all in your marriage.

“Jesus,” you said again, when you had finally caught your breath, still tangled.

“You owe me a rematch sometime,” I told you, straightening up. I scraped all my hair haphazardly into a ponytail and twisted it into a bun. You didn’t take your eyes off me the entire  time.

There was a heartbeat’s worth of hesitation before you replied, “Yeah. You’ll probably just beat me again.” 

“Don’t you want a chance to redeem yourself?” I couldn’t decipher whether you regretted what had just happened or whether you savored it.  I doubted that it mattered.

You finally looked away from me before you answered. “I always want a chance to redeem myself.”

The clouds closed again as you started the car,  but just as we pulled away, the headlights lay out where the shore met the Sound, just like moonlight.