There’s something to be said about how the rules of engagement transcend all borders when it comes to unknowingly hitting on a married woman:

Austrialian Teenagers in Singapore:
I was at an Irish bar having a drink with an old friend who has been married for slightly over a year. Two very young men, with the threatening bloom of adult fuzz on their faces, approached us and introduced themselves. They danced about their introduction, uncertain and a little shy, but somewhat inebriated. My friend here fancies you and we were wondering if we could join you ladies for a bit, said the bolder one. My friend turned to me and smiled, and in an extremely mummy tone, said: awwww that’s so sweet. But we’re waiting for our husbands. And with that, the boys blushed and apologized and swiftly extricated themselves from their little faux pas, no doubt chiding themselves as they walked brusquely away for not having checked for wedding bands first.

Unknown European Yuppie in Singapore:
While I was waiting in line at the Singtel Comms Centre in order to close my broadband account, I had locked eyes with a stout caucasion man walking determinedly towards the offices, thinking that he was a member of the staff. He wasn’t and I promptly forgot about the encounter. But as I left the building and walked towards Somerset, I heard a heavily-accented "excuse me" behind me and turned around. I saw you at Singtel a moment ago and I was wondering if we could be friends, asked the accent. I was flattered, despite the fact that I was a good foot taller than him. That’s lovely, but I’m married, I replied as I flashed him my wedding finger and watched him turn the colour of beetroot. He then graciously apologized and wished me good day. I thanked him and wished him back.

Dutch Truckdriver in France:
My husband and I had stopped for a coffee break in the midst of our drive from Paris to his hometown. While he went to the loo, I decided to have a cigarette outside, but realized that I had left my lighter with him. The only other smoker in sight was a tall scruffy-looking man in a wifebeater and shorts. Happy in the assumption that he would not be able to speak English and try to have a traveler-a-traveller tete-a-tete with me, I requested in broken French to borrow his lighter. He smiled a slightly interested grey and black toothless grin and reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter, and very gentlemanly cupped his other hand around the lighter as he lit my cigarette. I noticed his short and jagged fingernails were black with oil and soot and tried not to stare at them. As I withdrew away, he said something and I replied that I don’t speak French. Neither do I, he responded. Basket, I thought. Here we go. And sure enough, he went on to tell me that he was from the Netherlands and that he was driving south and asked where I was heading and where I was from and how I was traveling and I quickly replied: I’m heading south too, with my husband who I’m waiting for. With that, the man quickly made an about-turn between the moment where I said husband and before the end of my sentence, and walked away as he gave an awkward and friendly wave, saying Ah! You’re married! You have a husband!

Two things that surprised me most about the reactions of all these men were how swiftly they withdrew and how graciously they handled the delicate matter of unknowingly approaching a married woman and being given the brush-off. The rules of engagement was at play here, among men from very different places. It knew no age, race or border, this understanding that no matter how we perceive that all is fair in love and war, coveting a married woman is a big no-no.

Especially if you're not sure how big her husband is.