![]() Coming home from work, I would fuss with my hair before arriving at our stoop, just in case I ran into her outside smoking. Stranger than hooking up with a married woman was hooking up with someone whom I saw so much. ![]() Literalizing the commandment to love thy neighbor, we cared for each other. Though we never dated - never ate dinner or saw a movie together - we shared more than a street address. To me, an East Coast transplant in his early 20s, Jessie, a Bay Area native in her 30s, was beautiful, confident and worldly. ![]() I found symbolism and suggestion in our mirror-identical rooms, one floor removed. Her age was attractive to me, and mine to her. Jessie was older and generally wiser than I was. In my juvenility, it’s likely I said “cool” or “rad.” Not until a month into our neighbors-with-benefits relationship, while sitting on our shared stoop, did she tell me about her husband and their recent split. I didn’t know it when we kissed or when we woke up together or when we went to get coffee. When Jessie moved into the apartment above mine in a light-blue two-story Victorian near the Panhandle, I didn’t know she was married.
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