Happy Birthday, Dave
Twenty-five years ago today, I met a man. It was his birthday. We were both wearing white: he a lab coat, I a tuxedo jacket. Our paths merged and remained fixed for a long time. We made promises and plans. We talked and traveled, built a home and a circle of friends. The path seemed endless, winding toward a storybook ending of happiness forever. Then I strayed. For no good reason other than I could, for the only reason that mattered: I needed something else. He didn’t see. Or if he saw, he didn’t say. My respect for him eroded every minute he failed to catch me and call me out. I hated him for not knowing or showing, hated myself for hating him. Hated the mess I made but couldn’t see a way out of it. The guilt and shame of it took over. My entire life became the lie, and the lie became my identity. Then I decided to stop. The affair, not the lying. The lying still held everything together. Then one day I wondered if the building I worked in was tall enough to end...