In my burnt-orange Dynel lounging pajamas

With the rhinestone buttons,

I was, I concede, looking more abandoned than usual,

Which is probably why

My husband’s best friend

Made overtures.

My pulse quickened

And I could imagine . . .

Cryptic conversations.

Clandestine martinis.

Tumultuous embraces.

And me explaining

That I can’t slip away on Thursdays because of Cub Scouts,

And that long kisses clog my sinuses.

Under the bridge table

His hand-sewn moccasins

Rubbed insistently against my Bernardo sandals

While Dionne Warwick

Sang something suggestive

In stereo.

My lips trembled,

And I could imagine . . .

Stolen weekends at a windswept beach.

Waves pounding on the shore.

And pounding on the door

Of our motel hideaway.

The Vice Squad.

Over the salt-free peanuts and diet soda

His contact lenses

Sought mine,

As I sucked in my stomach

And asked him,

Coffee or Sanka?

My throat tightened,

My lips trembled.

My pulse quickened . . .

But aggravation

Was all

I could imagine.