Boyfriend

She was drop dead gorgeous and I wanted her. I lusted for her. I might even go so far as to say I would kill for her. Five feet five, one twenty, 36x22x35, hazel eyes and flaming red hair. When she was around I could not take my eyes off of her. She knew what she had and she knew that every man in the building wanted her.

Her name was Constance Frederick and she was a secretary where I work. Under other (and better) circumstances I would have immediately made a move on her, but I couldn’t. As much as I wanted her I had to behave myself. The lady was married and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, make a move on another man’s woman. It wasn’t a matter of morals, ethics or any of that kind of stuff; it was the simple fact that I could never do to another man what was done to me. It had hurt and three years later it still hurt.

Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense does it? On the one hand I say I’d kill for her and on the other I say I would never move on another man’s woman. I don’t need to make sense.