I got married young, at twenty-three. By the time I met John I had been married for five years and with my husband for nearly eight years. John and I worked together, although we lived in different states. We spoke on the phone occasionally, but we kept our conversations strictly professional. For some reason he made me nervous, even though we hadn’t met. There was just something about his voice that got to me.

About two months after we started working together, we met. We were on the same flight and I walked over to his seat to introduce myself. I had seen his photo and thought he was attractive, but I wasn’t prepared for my reaction to him. We shook hands. Time stood still. Our hands stayed entwined for much longer than was necessary. We were both speechless. I swear, I felt sparks when we touched. I told him I would find him after we landed and I went back to my seat. As I fastened my seat belt, I noticed the diamond in my engagement ring sparkling in the dim light. I felt guilty.

Over the next few months John and I talked more and more. He began calling me daily; sometimes we’d talk for an hour at a time. He traveled a lot, and sent me gifts from the road – CDs, cards, silly little things he’d pick up at the dollar store. My co-workers figured it out even before I did. I thought he was just being nice. They knew he wasn’t. It wasn’t until he started to call me in the evenings that I knew something was happening.

The first CD he sent me was by Prince. My husband was incensed. I remember him saying, “You don’t send a girl that kind of music. That’s music you listen to when you fuck!” I laughed it off. Not surprisingly, my husband and I were growing more distant. I loved John’s attentions. Still, I never wanted it to become serious, although I did have a sense that it would all end badly – mainly because I knew there was something John wasn’t telling me. He never spoke about his personal life, and I knew he had to have one. He was young, good-looking, and successful. I had my suspicions, but I was afraid to ask.

That summer John and I wound up in Miami together for work. We were tentative around each other at first, and then I think we both thought, the hell with it, something has to happen. So one evening, after many martinis, we sat alone and talked about “us.” He told me that he had convinced himself that he was gay until he met me. That the way he felt about me, he hadn’t felt about anyone, man or woman, in years. That he thought he couldn’t feel that way again. He had told people about me, even people who knew he was gay – told them that he had met a girl, Monique, and she was so pretty and smart and funny.

The conversation went on for hours; I wish I could remember it all. In the end we acknowledged that we had feelings for each other – he swore he was attracted to me not only emotionally and intellectually, but physically – but what could we do? I was married, and he told me he was in a relationship, although he wouldn’t say a word about his boyfriend. The rest of the week was a blur: I knew things would never be the same between us, and I almost wished we hadn’t acknowledged our feelings.

When I returned from the trip, my husband confronted me about John as soon as I walked in the door. I told him that John liked me and I liked him, but he was gay and we were going to be friends. My husband said he didn’t think we could. It was a horrible fight. I finally told my husband what I had known for months – that I wanted a divorce.

John called me a few days later to see how I was. I told him about the divorce, that I was relieved but scared. John was leaving on vacation – with his boyfriend, though he still wouldn’t tell me anything about him – but said he had a CD to send me that should make me feel better. When I received his CD I looked at the track list and burst into tears. They were love songs – not songs you send someone who is just your friend, and definitely not songs you send to someone who is divorcing her husband. The first song was “When You Say Nothing At All” by Alison Krauss. I remember I nearly drove my car off of the road listening to the lyrics: “It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart / Without saying a word, you can light up the dark / Try as I may I could never explain / What I hear when you don’t say a thing.”

My relationship with John deteriorated over the next few months. Whenever we talked he asked my about my husband: Have you filed for divorce yet? Have you put your house on the market? How often do you see him? Even when he called on thirtieth birthday, he kept taking the conversation back to my husband. Have you talked to him? What did he get you? Are you going to see him? And then, when I talked to my husband he only wanted to ask about John. It was exhausting. John and I had one last lunch together, and when he still wouldn’t tell me about his partner – no name, nothing – I knew we couldn’t be friends. I believe who we love does not define our worth as people, but John was so firmly convinced that he’d lose all his friends if he were openly gay, and well, I couldn’t support that. I told him he could use me as a “cover” if he felt he needed to, but I didn’t want to know about it.

I wrote him a long letter after that lunch and I never got a reply. It’s been over two years since we last spoke. I hear of him occasionally, and when I see a man with short black hair and olive skin, sometimes I think it’s him. I still can’t listen to that Alison Krauss song without my chest tightening. I saw her in concert last summer and when she sang “When You Say Nothing at All,” a friend held my hand until the song ended. It didn’t help.