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PocketsI have a confession to make. I’ve been having a secret love affair for 7 years. It hasspanned cities, states, and yes, even continents. During these 7 years, I’ve had 4boyfriends. That means I’ve cheated on them all.It’s surprisingly easy to lie about a situation if you’re someone like me – sweetlooking, freckles, there’s something in my eyes that tells people “I’m not gonna hurtyou” – and I won’t, because you’ll never find out.If you were me, you would do this: First, you divulge to your partner when it startsgetting serious that you have cheated on your boyfriends in the past, but that you“learned from the experience” and would “never do it again” because you “realizedhow much pain” you caused. Then, the party you are addressing ALWAYS gets alittle skeptical and raises an eyebrow or looks away and nervously laughs, runningtheir fingers over their head. You are prepared for this, so you get defensive whilenot looking too defensive (which you are good at, because if you are like me, youpractice this when you are alone, 1 hour before the calculated conversation). “Iwouldn’t do that to you of course. Well, I WOULDN’T. Oh my god. Really? Youthink I would do that. That just makes me sick. It makes me want to cry. I LOVEyou. (Let one tear roll down) I just wanna vomit I love you so much. Let’s not talkabout this; I think I really might vomit.” The addressee at this point will be confused by your bizarre threats and will pictureyou crying while vomiting, which will disturb them enough to distract them from theissue of infidelity for a few seconds. At this point, you do it. Or maybe you don’t,because one of you is tired. There are two types of “relationship people” in this world – those that know whatthey want and break it off when they’ve used up what they were out to get from theexperience, and those who are too chicken shit so they stay in weird or stale orfucked up relationships until someone cheats or dies. I’m a reformed member of the chicken shit club.Like I said, it’s surprisingly easy. To lie. To keep secrets. To steal away on therooftop of a Brooklyn hipster party and think, sauced up and wrapped in the glow of one too many drinks, that just maybe what you have at home is just security andwhat you have before you is appealing and dangerous. To cross the line – that’ssimple. Don’t think, do.It’s easy when you only speak twice a year, and even then, they know your friends,your past, and your favorite food, because they cooked it for you in their friend’sapartment in Chelsea while they were visiting NYC for the week. They’ve known

you since you were eighteen – in parked cars, dorm rooms overlooking Wall Street,rural cabins, on the way to a frozen waterfall – they’ve known you there and inmany more places. They’ve said things to you that you wrote down and sealedaway – tucked under your pillow while the man who takes care of you unknowinglysleeps on top of it too. “From Jeff” it says.“Who’s Jeff?”“No one.” It’s just a few times a year. For 7 years.How, you may wonder, could someone carry on like that for so long and act like it’sno big deal? The answer is simple. It’s remarkably easy for me tocompartmentalize parts of my life – to wrap up memories and relationships with realpeople in a tidy bow and give it a little pat and think, “there there, now wasn’t thatfun.” Like Picasso’s blue period. It’s as if I’ve gone shopping for personalities overthe past decade. The COLT 45 drinking gutter punk. The East Village fashion muse. The secretive, smiling good girl. But like a snake shedding its skin, I can easilycreep away and cast aside people and places that I used as props to build themythology. During each transition, I drop the silk rob on the bathroom floor andtread naked into another scenario. Picking a next persona is as easy as dressing apaper doll.But then there’s Jeff. Jeff who came to my Cinqo De Mayo party after I asked him to and then I spent theentire party with another man, and then left with that man. Jeff who ran around thestrip club with me while we found “the very best” dancers to purchase for ourfriend’s birthday lap dances. Jeff who spent the last two years traveling the worldwhile I was one dumb decision away from GETTING FUCKING MARRIED. Jeff whocalled me this summer when he was in the states visiting from his new home inAustralia, and Jeff who I never called back, until the last day before he returned tothe Southern Hemisphere.I left him a voicemail message. And I heard nothing. Until this morning.I found a note in my Facebook inbox time stamped 4:43 mountain time. It was long.Not like the snippets of wit that fly so easily with my usual online flirtations. It saidhe got my message when he stepped off the plane in Sydney, and how nice it wouldbe if I could come and visit him there. It said a lot of other things too. I read it as Ihad my morning coffee, then I went to take a shower. But I tripped on the floor. Then, I forgot where the soap was in the shower, even though it is always on thesame little soap ledge. It took me forever to decide that shirt to wear, and I forgotmy wallet on my way out the door. I couldn’t make sense of my world. It was like I