If I had to do it all over again, I think I would have just skipped all my marriages and all the heartache and trouble they caused. In the end, it just wasn't worth it, and I think, scratch that, I know all the ex-Mrs. Wilsons would agree. My wives deserved better and it turned out that I couldn't give them all they wanted in a husband. I wanted to, I really did. I had the best intentions at heart. It's not that I regret ever getting married. I regret the three acrimonious divorces that ended them. I loved my wives. I can say that with a straight face and mean every word of it. Of course during my three trips down the aisle, I thought it was forever–We'd have some kids, grow old together, spoil the grandkids rotten and be buried side by side. I didn't know then what I know now...one of the hardest lessons of my life.

It only took me three short marriages to learn it. Hopefully I can do better next time.

Through all the weddings, affairs, separations and divorces, I hadn't yet realized that I was in love with my best friend. Call it a huge case of denial. Call it being unable to see the forest for the trees. Call it being too goddamn stupid to know any better. All I really know is that it took me way too long to realize what I wanted and domestic bliss wasn't it. I could have saved one or all my wives and myself a whole of lot of pain.

That was then. What's done is done, whether they be mistakes or regrets or too many marriages. Dwelling on past mistakes wasn't going to fix them. Time to concentrate on the here and now. Focus on what is instead of what was.

He's standing by the bed, methodically unbuttoning his shirt. As I watched the charcoal gray material slip from his shoulders, all I could think of was how beautiful Greg was at that moment.

Maybe it was the way the dusky light in the bedroom illuminated the curve along his neck, or the way it brought out the highlights in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he would push the prickly exterior of his personality to the side and let himself become a vulnerable human being for a while. Smiling at me, a crooked, knowing smile. He knows that I'm enjoying what I'm seeing, and he knows that I know and, Dear God, he's so damn beautiful when he does that. I see that smile so rarely and when I do it's pure nirvana. Maybe it's all of those things. Maybe it's none of those things. By the time I finished fumbling with my buttons and shrugged out of my own shirt I didn't really care.

He's not perfect and neither am I. Perfection has never equaled beauty in my book. I love his flaws as much as I love the rest of him.

And I know he'd say the same thing about me.

I wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, I wanted to do that more than anything but had to stop myself at the last second, nearly choking on the words. The memory of our conversation at the table was still all-too-fresh in my mind.

I'm not that person you see.

Yes, you are.

You can cut the bullshit, Jimmy.

You're a good person. Why can't you see that?

He didn't accept it then, and the passage of only two or three days certainly hadn't changed his opinion on that. He'd just shrug it off, bat it away the compliment with some snarky comment and spoil the grace of the moment we were both enjoying immensely. It wasn't the time or the place to start a petty argument. So I kept quiet. It was the right thing to do. I didn't need to learn another lesson the hard way.

Arms around each other, skin against skin, touching each other with possessive and reckless abandon. Coarse stubble scratches at my mouth as he kisses me–a strange sensation I haven't quite got used to but find it more and more arousing each time. I suppose it's because it reminds that I'm with this man, and I know who's beneath the scruffy surface and he's well worth knowing. Long and lingering kisses with the a touch of his usual insistence and utter lack of finesse. That was fine, that was him, and he was all I wanted and more. Then I felt his hand skirt down my belly and tug at the button of my pants and all coherent thought dissolved into a blur of hands and sweat and moans and carnality, into oblivion, just him and me.

As close to perfection as we could get. It was close enough. I was afraid to get too close for fear of getting burned.

And I had already had enough of that to last into the next life.

Dinner was another bowl of cornflakes. He protested, of course, my day wasn't complete without at least one bitch session from him. I pointed out that it was light and not greasy, just what he requested, and he ate it without griping too much.

There was still some ice cream left. Greg said his stomach could handle it. Mine could too. If not there was another bottle of Pepto. We each had one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of mint with a mountain of whipped cream and the rest of the cherries. Enough to give a us a great sugar buzz and not enough to give us a maddening case of indigestion. No complaints that time around. I would have strangled him with my tie if there had been.

I cleaned up the dishes. He found something to watch on television. Business as usual.

Not one word about rehab.

He still had two more days.