He told me there were things he needed that she simply couldn't give him. "I don't just want children, I need them," he said over red wine during another intense conversation. She didn't want kids. He told me that I'd helped him come to these conclusions. It seemed like they'd never talked about having a family before they married. But I kept quiet about her. None of this was for me to judge.
It was clear to me that his realizations were causing their relationship to unbind. I wondered if I was just a distraction from his situation, or someone who came into his life to help him figure out what he wanted.
They decided to have an open marriage. They both agreed that if one of them had an affair they wouldn't tell the other person. As far as I knew she didn't know about me, but he didn't seem to mind her finding out. It was as if they lived together but had separate lives.
It's been eight months now. The other day he texted me, saying "We're like the stars in Twilight, incapable of removing ourselves from a dangerous relationship." Our emotional, intellectual, spiritual and sexual connection is undeniable. It's so overpowering that even though he's married I have no desire to be with another guy. They're all completely uninspiring in comparison.
The book Eat, Pray, Love describes a soulmate as, "Someone who shows you everything that's holding you back, bringing you to your own attention so you can change your life...They tear down your walls and smack you awake...They come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself."
I used to think cheating was the worst crime—being unfaithful to a commitment seemed like the ultimate betrayal. Marriage, in my mind, was a romantic concept surrounded by the idea of true love, not adultery. Plus, I've seen what happens to the mistresses in the movies. Now I see it differently: it's a selfish commitment to yourself to get to that uncomfortable and unknown place—a place that shakes you up and compels you to confront your needs, to move your a step closer to yourself.