The time had come to say farewell, goodbye to our next-door neighbors of more than eleven years.  The last night my wife of four decades and I spent on our Midwestern suburban street, we spent with the Schmidt's.  Morris and Sharon were in their early forties, their two precious children six and eight.  We were sixty.

Anna, my wife was still upstairs, when I turned to say goodbye to Sharon.  We looked each other in the eyes, as our faces drew closer.  She sighed quietly as our lips gently touched.  Morris was at work, and Helen, her six year old nearby.  Son Jeremy was at school.  I couldn't help but feel touched by what had just happened.  It seemed like less than five minutes passed, when Sharon came towards me.  This time she stepped close, and we placed our arms around each other.  Her lips found mine and mine and she began to move her lips over mine.  At the same time her hands across my lower back pulled my body against hers.  There was a moment of pregnant silence, after which I drew back.  She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said nothing.  I didn't know what to say, and stood there in a state of excitement and wonder.

Soon Anna and I were waving goodbye to Sharon and her daughter, as we backed from their driveway and headed west.  Sharon was taking pictures as we left.  Anna and I were sad at leaving these wonderful neighbors and friends.  Later than morning, as we entered Indiana, I asked myself, when Jesus commands, "to love our neighbor," what kind of love is he talking about.

All that first day of travel I couldn't keep my mind off what had happened in those last several minutes with Sharon.  I truly loved all four of the Schmidt's.  Morris, although eighteen years younger, I considered a real friend.  He was such a gentle and caring man.  He had some depth to him, and many a time had been supportive and helpful to Anna and I.  The two precious children were like our grandchildren.  We had known them since birth, and knew them better than our own grandchildren.  That morning, little Helen had been so sad and upset; she could hardly eat breakfast, her face tight and fighting back tears.  What lovely children they both were.

And Sharon, she was a wonderful Mother, and compassionate human being.  Much of her time outside the home was spent volunteering to help those in need.  She was not quite 20 years younger than I, and had an attractive face, and was very intelligent.  Her breasts were small, and after her classically lovely face, her legs were her best assets.  She worked out at the Athletic Club five days a week.

It wasn't until a year or so before we moved west, that I began to realize she might consider our relationship as more than a friendship.  One day I was talking with her son, Jeremy, and I looked up and saw a look on her face I had not seen before.  My first interpretation was she admired the relationship I had with her son.  But as time passed, I came to realize it was more a look of her admiration for me.

I had had flirtatious, romantic relationships with several women through the years, but no physically intimate ones.  Anna knew about some of them, and I for several years I had been attending 12 step groups for sex, relationship and romance addicts.  But with Sharon, wife of my good friend and neighbor of eleven years; Sharon, mother of the children I adored as if they were grandchildren?

The second day along the interstate, we sped across hundreds of miles of rolling farmland, with the sadness of saying goodbye to our midwestern friends and the Schmidt's still on my mind.  I began to fantasize about Sharon, and recalled a day in recent months; when our house was up for sell.

The realtor and his clients were late for their appointment.  Anna was still at work, and I had taken a walk around the neighborhood, while the house was being shown.  I returned to our street a couple of times, only to still see the cars in the driveway.  Impatient, I rang the Schmidt's doorbell, and asked if I could come in out of the cold.  Sharon welcomed me, along with Helen, who was getting ready to leave for her afternoon Kindergarten.

After awhile, Sharon asked me to stay for lunch, and fixed me a delicious grilled cheese sandwich.  As the time for Helen to catch her bus drew near, I felt like I was an inconvenience to Sharon, and apologized.  Her response was that I could stay as long as I wanted.  She didn't mind if I stayed the whole afternoon.  I didn't, but my addictive mind fantasized about what might have happened.  I pictured us falling into a passionate embrace on the couch, undressing each other, and having great, orgasmic sex.  Now, traveling to our retirement home, especially after what had happened the previous day, I fantasized again.

I also remembered the day Sharon had come rushing to our front door, and asked me to come quickly to her basement, to see if I could smell leaking gas.  I went with her, leaving Anna, who was off work, and did not smell a thing.  Sharon looked different that day, and something made me quickly leave from her basement and return home.  She was home alone.  Later that day, I saw Anna looking long and hard at Sharon, as she sunbathed on their next-door deck.

But this fantasy was different.  It was more complex.  There was romance and lust, but there was guilt and regret.  A part of me didn't want anything to do with even the idea of a relationship with Sharon.  Another part told me that maybe someday we would be together.  "Stop that," I said to "my addict."  That's the old relationship and romance addict part of me.  That is insanity.  I'm crazy when I think things like that.

Here I was with my wife of nearly forty years, retiring near our children and grandchildren, 2,500 miles away.  What in the world was I doing thinking about anything else?  I shook my head, blinked my eyes, and turned to look adoringly at my precious wife and best friend.  Anna was the most wonderful person I had ever known.  However, we had not had sexual intercourse for at least ten years.  It was my opinion both of us were sexual anorexics.

I thought about somehow maintaining contact with Sharon, after we had moved into our retirement home.  Would it be through emails or on the phone?  I would like to continue our relationship with the entire Schmidt family.  Maybe something would happen to Morris.  Maybe the Schmidt's would someday move close to us.  His company had a large office only thirty minutes away.

This time it was clearly the romance addict part of my addiction speaking loud and clear, and I shut it from my mind.  But maybe Anna and I could keep a relationship with Jeremy and Helen, and a side benefit would be Morris, and more importantly, Sharon.  Oh, my God, help me.  I've got to stop this "stinking thinking," as it's called in 12 Step Language.

The first several days in our new home, there were "hang-up" calls every day.  I checked it out through dialing *69, and each time it was an 800 number.  Was it her?  Why was it then from an 800 number?  The last several months in our previous home, there had been a lot of these calls, but when I dialed *69, there was either a busy signal, or a recording told me the calling number could not be revealed.

I sent Halloween E-cards to Jeremy and Helen.  I sent Email messages to the family, but did not have the courage or motivation to call.  The only response was an email, but it was from Morris.  It was signed, "Love, Morris."  The first month passed, and my heart still ached in its lonely old way.  Was this the end of it?  Had it been the fantasy and imagination of my addiction all along?  Had I misread Helen, and projected my own desires on her?  All I could do was wait and see.  All I could do, in my sane moments, was to forget about the whole thing and get on with the rest of my life.

But oh those nice sweet and soft lips upon mine!  Oh, my body pressed against hers!