[O]ne night this summer when my husband was out of town, a male friend stopped by for a drink. After our second drink, I kissed him. He started to kiss me back, and then stopped.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he said. “I should leave.” After a few ambivalent minutes, he made his way to the door. He knows and likes my husband, and was afraid, he said, that if things went any further he wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.
The strange thing, though, is that my husband would not have objected.
... A tiny piece of Ada Calhoun's "You May Call It Cheating, But We Don't," from yesterday's Sunday Styles, which sort of has a twist "ending" (about two-thirds through). Also "cuckold," as I just learned, comes etymologically from "cuckoo," the bird.