It's time for me to confess: I've been seeing another woman.
No, she's not a cocktail waitress or a nightclub promoter or a porn star, but she's cute, has a killer smile and looks good in a dress. I've tried to rationalize the relationship as the inevitable by-product of a common stagnation period for marriages: my wife Dorothy and I are about to enter our fifth year.
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But that argument just doesn't fit.
Dorothy's beautiful, smart and successful. We have common habits (doing laundry) and convictions (we don't like Walmart, but shop there anyway), and cohabiting is easy: we prefer crunchy peanut butter to smooth, Brian Williams to Katie Couric, and Lost to... are there any other shows? Further, Dorothy's one hundred percent Italian—the daughter of a businessman with less than loose mafia ties who would put me underground if I so much as frowned at his "little girl."
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Still, from the first minute I met this other woman, I couldn't resist her charms.
I first met Sophia when Dorothy and I lived in Greensboro, NC. We connected in a hospital and started seeing each other immediately. It wasn't easy; I worked long hours and she was a full-time student who was very attached to her mother, which made things uncomfortable. But we found time: in the mornings after Dorothy left for work, or in the early afternoons for a quick lunch.