Kelly and Emma (some names have been changed) were friends. Good friends. But their friendship was destroyed in an emotional and dramatic fashion, by a man. By me. Married to one, I had an affair with the other.

Kelly and I had been together for 12 years, married for eight. We complemented each other in all the important ways. Neither the happiest nor the unhappiest couple we knew, we believed we'd be together forever.

The problems began the day her friend Emma entered our lives. When we met, about seven years ago, I was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity, as though we already knew each other.

I was drawn in equal measure to Emma's dark-haired beauty and striking style -- two parts British Vogue, one part Frida Kahlo -- and to her wit and intelligence. I thought of her constantly and dreamed of her with alarming frequency. Emma, however, didn't seem overly impressed with me. She was also, apparently, happily married. That I was too, or thought I was, seemed almost irrelevant.

She and Kelly weren't actually that different. They shared an area of study -- both taught literature -- and even looked alike. If someone had told me at the beginning of my marriage that someday I would feel equally drawn to another woman, I would not have believed it. And even now I had not stopped loving Kelly. The problem was simple: I was deeply drawn to both women.

The solution was also simple: I'd cut off all contact with Emma. I avoided situations where we might run into each other. When we did, I'd excuse myself and not return. People assumed I disliked her. I felt I was acting honorably, sacrificing a part of myself for my marriage. But nothing I did alleviated my shame, nor did it enhance the marriage I was trying to protect.

Thinking about Emma made me feel guilty, which, absurdly, made me resent Kelly -- and that made me feel even more guilty. Something was clearly wrong with my marriage. Or was it just me?

I began to look at parts of our life I'd never taken the time to analyze. There were problems in the marriage. When we were first together, we used to fight passionately about the things we disagreed on -- careers, money. Over time, though, we'd stopped arguing. Fights that had lasted hours or days condensed themselves into brutal one-line battles. Instead of facing our conflicts, we chose to ignore them and hope they'd go away.

Fantasy Becomes Reality

Meanwhile, Emma still haunted me. I was sure my attraction was more than simply physical. It was, for whatever reason, deep and profound. I told no one, not even my closest friends.

Finally, after a couple of years, I could no longer suppress my feelings for Emma. I was compelled, despite all logical sense, to reach out to her. How could I reveal myself without hurting Kelly and risking our marriage?

I decided to send Emma secret-admirer emails. At the very least, I'd be able to vent some feelings. I emailed her once a week for a month, rerouting the messages through an anonymous remailer. They were simple notes laden with excerpts from poems and declarations about her beauty. If she kept the letters a secret, I decided, I might be able to confess without fear of exposure.

But she didn't. She told Kelly, and Kelly told me: Emma had a secret admirer. No one could figure out who it was. I stopped sending the emails immediately.

Then, in the spring of 1999, I found a legitimate reason to contact Emma, who had by this time moved with her husband to another town. I had a question about a book I was reviewing, and it was on a subject I knew she'd studied extensively. Soon I managed to turn that single question into an ongoing correspondence. On the surface it seemed innocent, but eventually Emma asked, "I guess I wonder why we're writing like this." I took a breath and wrote back, "I don't know, but I have to confess that I haven't told Kelly." Emma admitted that she hadn't told her husband, either.

Our messages became longer and more philosophical. One day Emma wrote, "Can I ask you an odd question?"

"Go ahead," I replied.

She wrote: "This may sound stupid, but...a few years ago I received a couple of anonymous secret-admirer emails. I never discovered who sent them. Thing is, a phrasing in one of your recent emails was almost exactly the same as in one of the anonymous ones. Was it you who sent them?"

I thought about it all day. Finally, at 2am, I wrote, "Yes. It was me."

Instant infidelity. Done.

Emma was stunned. She asked if the admirer emails were a joke. She couldn't believe I'd sent them; she'd really bought my I-can't-stand-you act.