There were times during my affair with Lauren when I imagined how it would end. I never envisioned any tears, or even raised voices. Neither of us threatened to ruin the other’s life, and our husbands never became the wiser. In fact, in this fantasy, it was as if my relationship with Lauren had never occurred. The only evidence of it was my memory. I even wiped Lauren’s clean.

The reality could not have been more different. Not only from that best-case scenario, but the worst-case one as well.

In mid-November, Lauren asked me to share a taxi home with her. We had done this before. A half hour in the car together, an hour if we were lucky enough to hit traffic, making out in the back like teenagers. I knew, however, that there’d be none of that tonight.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it here. I’ll explain on the ride,” she said.

As soon as we got in the cab, Lauren took my hand. Hers was cold on account of the weather, which had hovered around freezing for the last few days. I wanted to ask her again what she had to tell me, but I was afraid to say a word.

As the car rolled uptown, I kept Lauren’s hand in mine. She was looking out the window, undoubtedly trying to summon the courage to tell me that we were over.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. “Just tell me,” I blurted out.

She turned to face me. I could see the beginning of tears in her eyes.

“I . . . need to stop because . . . because I’m just dying inside, Dana. I’ve been telling myself that for weeks, but I’m . . . I’m just too weak when I’m around you, and I can’t help myself. So I’ve decided that tonight, when I get home, I’m going to tell Richard and beg him to forgive me. I don’t know any other way that I’m going to be able to stay away from you unless I burn the bridge so I can’t go back. Telling Richard will do that.”

She broke eye contact, peering again outside the window, as if the answer to why she was breaking my heart could be found on the city streets. The cab was moving swiftly, a rarity of no traffic, and we were making every light. We’d be at Lauren’s building in only a few minutes.

A sense of panic began to take hold. “Stop here,” I called out to the driver. “We’re going to get out right here.”

“No,” Lauren said, countermanding my directive.

For a moment, I thought that was it. She was going to do what she said—go home and tell her husband about our affair. This would be the last time I ever held her hand.