Last Thursday, I told my husband I was hitting the gym, but honestly, I just needed some space to clear my head. Instead, I found myself at this dive bar across town, kind of my secret spot where no one knows me. I was sitting there, nursing a drink, when this guy slid into the seat next to me. Younger than me, maybe by ten years, but with this confidence that totally caught my attention.

We got to talking, easy chatter about bad TV shows and our worst dates. It was the kind of talk that had me giggling like I hadn’t in years. He had this way of looking at me like I was the only person in the room, and, well, one drink led to another. Before I knew it, we were leaning into each other, the buzz of the alcohol and the chemistry between us building up something fierce.

He suggested a bold move, “Let’s get out of here,” and we stumbled out to his car, parked in a dimly lit corner of the lot. The next thing I know, we’re in the backseat, clothes getting tossed aside in the rush. It was wild, intense, and completely unlike me. His hands were everywhere, and I just let go, lost in the moment and how good it felt to be wanted that much.

It didn’t last long, but those brief minutes were like an escape from reality. After, while we were straightening up our clothes, there was this understanding smile between us, no regrets, just a shared secret. He dropped me back at my car with a cheeky kiss on the cheek and a wink. “Thanks for the workout,” he said, and I drove off with my heart still racing.

I went home, showered, and slipped into bed next to my husband, who was none the wiser. I lay there, the echo of my heartbeat loud in my ears, thinking about how crazy I’d just been. It was reckless, totally out of line, but in that moment, I felt alive. I haven’t gone back to that bar since, and I don’t plan to, but I can’t help smiling every time I pass by that gym on my way to the grocery store.