I won’t pretend I was naive the first time I cheated. The build-up to it started months beforehand. A good friend had just moved back to my city, and after a few fits and starts we settled on weekly after-work drinks to catch up. We sampled a few happy hours, but ultimately we found our regular spot at a small neighborhood bar. It was between downtown and our neighborhoods, so an easy stop, but not so close to our homes that we felt compelled to invite our husbands. It was a perfect spot for a girls night.
In a smaller bar like that, stopping by on Wednesday evenings like clockwork, it didn’t take much to start feeling like a regular. The bartenders knew our likes and made recommendations; they got to know us well enough to make small talk if we were clearly bored but steer clear if we were in a conversation.