“Welcome to Transcontinental Flight 404 with non-stop service to Baltimore’s BWI airport.” Emotionally drained, exhausted, and confused, I boarded the plane. I hoisted my overstuffed rolling bag into an overhead bin and sank into my seat, contemplating this evening’s events and the range of emotions I had experienced. From extreme joy to intense pain, love’s pendulum had swung, destroying all in its path. I was numb from disbelief, hardly able to speak.

“Montana, would you like a snack?” asked the very accommodating flight attendant who noticed my credentials hanging from my bag. “We’re all out of dinners, but I have some fresh fruit. We’ve got peaches and srawberries and…”

Quickly cutting her off, I replied “No. No, thank you. No fresh fruit.” I attempted (unsuccessfully, I’m sure) to return her comforting smile.

What went wrong? What could I have done differently? How could I have prevented what happened from happening? How could I have been so oblivious to the signs? How could I have allowed my heart to be served on a platter, only to have it splattered to the ground? How could I be so damn stupid?

What about his wife? Does she even realize her husband is leading a second life? A secret life? For six months he was mine. For six months we laughed, we shared, we exchanged emotions and desires and plans. For six months we were, in my mind, singular. I wonder does his wife feel like me: cheated on? Robbed of her future? I wonder if I were in her place, would I know? Does a woman ever know? Are there women who do know, but don’t care?

The craziest thing in the world is that I feel more sorry for her than I do for myself. I know that sounds stupid, but I do. At least I know he’s a dog. She could be sitting there thinking that he’s the ideal husband, and that his business trips are actually spent doing business, not pleasure. I feel sorry for her. But then…the other craziest thing is that honestly, if I was her and didn’t know, would it be all that bad? Would it be all that bad coming home with a dog and two kids to a four-thousand-square-foot house, welcomed by a hug, greeted with a kiss, soothed by the crackling sounds of a warm fireplace? Would it be all that bad if, even though I wasn’t the only one, he made me feel like I was? And if he was going to end up being the low-down, two-timing snake that he was, why did he have to be so damn good in bed?