Two years ago, I let a colleague kiss me. I’ve been married for more than 20 years. I love my wife, but all I can think about is my colleague. Why can’t I forget about that kiss?

Dushka Zapata, Three time book author.

When he kissed me we were sitting on his mom’s white leather sofa. His hand felt strong and hot around the nape of my neck – flat against the small of my back – tangled in my hair.

How is it that his kiss burned itself so clearly into my memory and yet what my memory recalls is anatomically impossible?

I will tell you how. That decades old kiss is infused with fantasy. It’s a dream kiss, unrestrained, wondrous, imagined. It happened – believe me, it happened – but it’s since been adulterated by my internal design. That kiss is a flawless invention.

Reality is grittier. It’s every day, it’s laundry and a sink full of dirty dishes. It’s coming home tired after work. It’s you, the one I sometimes wish was different, the one who misses meeting my expectations and falls short in small, disheartening ways.

That kiss: an apparition, a fancy, paradise, my perfect hallucination.

You: here, concrete, true, disappointing.

One is escape. It’s what our imagination does when we need a break from what we’ve got.