Working at a pace that only a 19 year-old body likes to work, I set wine glasses for this wedding's toast down at the tables. I look over to see his face smiling at me and I cannot help but feel the knot in my stomach that is so ready to jump out of my body and run across the tables to jump him. He is young, 22 with military issued glasses on his face. He is determined to become a firefighter after his service; I am determined to crawl inside the warmth of his body, to partner living his dreams, to feel him for the rest of my life.

Waking up from my daydream I rush to the back to grab plates to put on the tables I had just dressed and glassed for the couple. I cannot get my mind off him, or way from kissing his lips with such fury that I can take his soul. The plates set; I rush to setup the banquet of flowers in the hallway. He slips his hand into mine and rushes me off to the private room we had setup earlier. He sets down the glasses in his hand beside me and grabs my back under my shirt. He pulls me to him and whispers things I cannot recognize before plunging his lips onto mine. I need him so bad that every single cell in my body tightens up to uncomfortable pulling that leaves me feeling sick and wanting more.

I cannot get out of my mind how much I wanted him. This was 12 years ago this Labor Day. I dream about it every single night, I think about him every day of my life. No one knows this but me. It is a private longing I swear I will get back after I live my private hell.

My husband’s father meets me in the hallway. This is before we get married and have kids. This is when I started to live with him and his father who was a drunk and drug addict with type 2 diabetes. I started to see him because I felt sorry for him. His life was as tragic as mine. He had a helplessness I could not avoid. I was drawn inside myself to his sadness. His father stopped me in the hallway to stop me from retrieving the phone.

He said, “Please do not meet up with the young man you are talking to. My son needs you. You are the only one that could save him.”

These are the words that burn into my mind and stay like they are whispered over and over again, relinquishing me to my doom. These are the words that make my soul cry. I agree and walk back to the room where my husband greets me with a smile.

I still think, “Should I have worn shorts that day? Should I have just gone? Is this want normal?”

Today, I stalk him. I look him up on the internet. I search his last name to find he has let his radio license expire. I search and find he has bought a home in North Carolina. I search and find he has a wife and a child. I search until my heart breaks into a million pieces on the floor. He has moved on.

I, too, have moved on. My life is with children and a very loving husband that I can do no wrong. Can I do no wrong?

I have spent every single day pushing that envelope. I have gained 100 pounds, I have learned how to blow my nose into my hand, I have learned that even if I ignore him he still loves me and it sickens me. It makes me feel helpless and makes me feel empty inside. It makes me sad and hollow. It reminds me of Juvenile Hall. It makes me feel locked up inside, peering out of the bottom of a blinded window to see the hint of life that is outside.

Why must I live this tortured hell?

Lines of my intent have blurred. I don’t know if I can take it anymore. Some days I have to lie down to get the knotted up feeling out of my stomach.

Does he still think of me?

His wife looks a lot like I did. She is beautiful and young. I once felt beautiful and young. The wrinkles are adding themselves onto my worn face. My eyes have become dull and my weight has become an issue. Depression has taken its toll on my life.

I cannot get out of my mind how his starched white jacket felt on my chin, on my arms as I held him from behind. I cannot forget the warm night we worked an event together and had seen the sunset on top of a hill looking over the diamond crusted water.

I would do anything to get that one moment in time back. I would do anything.

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