There is something slightly unsettling about hanging out with old flames, similar to having a ghost walk boldly into the room and sit in between the two of you.

It whispers to you, reminds you of words exchanged and past physical affections, all the while you look through its spectral body and attempt to concentrate on mundane conversation. You fight the urge to pull that person close to you and place your lips on their earlobe, breathing clandestine ideas and words of adoration.

We sat on the couch, the obligatory two feet of space between us, and watched a movie while the kids ran like elephants up and down the stairs. We laughed at the right times, cryed at the right times and ignored the fact that the evening felt like two children playing dress up and attempting to act like adults. What we really wanted to do was jump up and down on the couch, hold hands and forget we had roles to play.

But it's never really that simple, is it? The connection I feel with her is fleeting, fading and reminding me that I never was that into her. There were no fireworks, no declarations of love. The sex, while technically great, wasn't mind-blowing in the way that emotionally deep relationships produce.

So we're friends. Our children are friends. We watch movies, go to bars and have dinner.

But don't make me pretend that her hair doesn't smell like heaven.