She sits down next to me on the couch looking tired, but happy to see me. The party, which I had been observing closely, continues to whirl about us, but for now my focus is only on her. Which is why she is happy to see me, why she sits so close, her leg pressed against mine, to tell me about her problems.

Why do men with gorgeous wives ignore them? Do they forget how beautiful and compelling they are? Did they ever really see them in the first place?

As her husband pontificates to a small eager crowd on the other side of the room I listen to her, and look at her. She thrives on both. She hasn't said it yet, but doesn't have to. I can see the twinkle in her eye as my eyes rove over her long body and linger on her smiling face. Certainly she is not popularly gorgeous. She is too lanky, too gawky, too brainy, too vaguely Eastern European both in accent and squared off line, but in an academic crowd, and to me especially, she is stunning. She touches herself as she talks, pushing her straight, shoulder-length, light brown hair back behind her ears, pointing out the spots where she is sore from too much exercise, drawing my gaze hither and yon. When she is not complaining about her ailments she is complaining about her husband (or does he qualify as an ailment?) and perhaps the pressure of her leg against mine increases as she speaks of him.

How many years have I filled this role now? Twenty? thirty? The years blur together. I forget how old I am now, how young I was when I started, how many disenchanted wives and girlfriends have invited me to sit with them or invited themselves to sit with me, have leaned in close, have clasped my hands or pressed against me, have stared deeply into my eyes, have offered, or asked for, understanding, have issued vague invitations for unspecified future meetings.

My leg presses back against hers, subtlely enough she can believe it is accidental if she wants to, hard enough for her to know it isn't if she chooses to believe. There is a similar balancing act with her husband. I must sympathize without attacking or defending him, must vaguely imply that I would do better, a task made easier without my wife sitting next to me to argue otherwise. I do not see my wife at the moment; she is undoubtedly also pontificating.

In the old days, my young days, I fled these encounters, both out of fear of the unknown, and out of disbelief that they wanted me, that they wanted what they seemed to be broadly hinting at. As I have aged, mellowed, and ripened, I have come to realize it is much more complex than that. They do want, they are hinting, but they do not expect. Their rational selves crave only the attention, and maybe the sense of danger, that comes with the high intensity flirting of polite society. Their unconscious selves, their back-clawing, face-devouring, wildly-bucking sexual selves are primed for responses that polite society usually refuses to offer. But I am not completely of this world.

I commiserate with her on the pain she is having with her hips, hoping that the promise of pleasure will overcome any reluctance to move them energetically. I point out the spots where I have pain myself, my hand drawing her eyes to my lap, to my growing erection, to the proof of her desirability. She raises one eyebrow at me, her head cocked to one side. Holding her hands to her ears she complains of the noise, the crowd, the bright light, and her sudden thirst.

There was a time I would have assumed she was trying to escape. I no longer assume. I ask questions. "Shall we get a drink, and then find someplace quieter?"

There is a moment's silence. Her smile, if such a thing is possible, grows even wider. Her eyes grow even brighter. She nods. She rises. I follow.