I don't think he'd win any awards. He's not a Mel Gibson. He's not even a Brad Pitt. His attractiveness is very unassuming, almost understated. It is something in the manner of his eyes, and how they change color. Something of his mouth, which is quite perfect. The mangled tussle of cowlicks. The imperfection of the nose, which is slightly too heavy for the delicacy of his face, only serves to highlight the perfection in everything else.

I could spend days looking at him, but I can't.

Peter is engaged.

"It's just a fun little flirtation," I say to myself, whenever the subject comes up in my brain. "I'm not pursuing it ­ I'm not even doing anything wrong." Men do it all the time, I figure. Looking. It's safe. It's assumed. It's understandable. And it's fun. So why do I feel so guilty when he catches me staring at him, an innocent expression carefully plastered there for that very reason? Am I behaving inappropriately?

I am in the grey area between friendship and infidelity, pretty sure I'm doing something naughty, even if I'm not doing anything bad. I am often tempted by that grey area. Maybe I'm just instinctively wicked.

Given the chance to kiss his mouth without fear of reprisal, I probably would. It's a terribly kissable mouth. But, when faced with that vaguely oily feeling that comes as soon as the act is done, when the consequences of the deed are roaring in your ears, and the inconvenience/irritation of dealing with the heartbreak of others ... nah. Not worth it. Infidelity is messy.

I don't like to think it is only the fear of reprisal that keeps me faithful to my own boyfriend. But, you know, it probably is. If I could have my cake and my frosting, too, I'd be the happiest girl on earth. Desiring one doesn't detract from a commitment to the other. They're just ... different.

But where does the line of adultery begin?