I Watched My Girl With Our Friend, and I'd Do It Again

The idea started as a whisper in the back of my head, one of those thoughts you push away until you stop pushing. Raffaele had been our friend for years, always around, always easy to be with, and somewhere along the way I started noticing the way my girlfriend looked at him when she thought I wasn’t watching.

I didn’t just stumble into that night. I arranged it, quietly, deliberately, the way you plan something you’ve wanted for a long time without admitting it. I remember sitting across the room, the lamp throwing warm light over the two of them, and feeling something I hadn’t expected: a deep, steady calm, underneath all the heat.

I watched. I didn’t look away once.

Afterward, lying in the dark with her beside me, I understood something about myself that I couldn’t unfeel. The act itself had been one thing, charged and vivid and real. But what followed was stranger and more lasting: the knowledge that it had happened, that Raffaele knew, that the story existed somewhere outside our walls.

Now the thought that others might know, that someone reading this recognises what I am, does something to me that surprises me every time.

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