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When I look back on it now, I smile, I laugh, and sometimes, I cry, but mostly I enjoy the memories. It all started out very innocently. I was head of the neighborhood welcoming committee and she was the new woman next door. There are probably a thousand stories like mine, but I don't care, because they can never be mine. You see, this was more than sex, more than love, more than passion unbridled, as they call it in all the dime novels. If you want hardcore sex, this story isn't for you. If you want a fast fuck, then don't waste your time. But if you want life, at its best for two people, who you have never met, and will probably never meet, then read on, and enjoy. But remember, this is my story, and it wasn't written for you or with you in mind. It was written for me, and for her.

I watched as she walked back and forth tracing a path across the driveway from the Ryder moving truck to her front door. I imagined her setting boxes down in the living room I'd been in more times than I can remember. The kitchen I had cooked in and the bedroom my kids had sleepovers in. While happy for her, I cried for my friends. They had lived in there house longer then I have lived in mine. We did everything together as families often do, until Margrets husband died suddenly because of a massive heart attack. No one saw it coming, not even his doctors. And there had been no words to soothe Margrets dying heart. She had packed, herself and her two kids, and moved back home, to be close to her parents. We still kept in contact, letters and pictures, but it wasn't the same. I guess I should take a moment to ...

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