A Life of Regret

A Life of Regret

By

Clarence A. Molloy III

I’ve spent the past thirty years of my life wondering “What if…?” and “Why didn’t I?” What was once a young, vibrant life has now turned into a nightmare. As time ticks on by, all I can do these days is wonder, “What would my life look like if I had made better choices in my younger years?” I don’t want to wake up in the morning, old, and closer to death, and staring out my bedroom window with great remorse and regret. Why is life only starting to make sense when I’m so close to the end?

Now that I’m not so young and aching in places I never realized existed, I go to sleep with her on my mind. I wake up three times throughout the night to take a wee, praying nothing’s wrong with my prostate. I return to bed, wishing she was there, awaiting my return with comforting words as she gently rubbed my back, lulling me back to sweet sleep and slumber. If I could do it all over again, I would make her breakfast in bed everyday, for the rest of her life. Scrambled eggs, with a touch of black pepper and avocado toast, with hot cocoa, no matter the season. I would feed her every bite, not because she was sick and feeble or unable to do it herself, but because it would be a gesture of love. I would happily brush her hair if she even hinted. Massaging her feet would be my delight at the end of the day, just before we called it a night. I would leave love letters for her to find all over our home. I would enjoy our nightly snuggles after dinner in front of the TV as we settled in to watch another chick flick on the Hallmark channel with a glass of red wine in hand and a bag of salty chips.

Every day, for the past 25 years, I asked myself, “Where did the time go?” I look in the mirror every morning and, without fail, for a second or two, I don’t recognize the old guy looking back at me. Then it slowly dawns on me that beneath all the gray hair and wrinkles and creases… it’s me, just in a much older shell.

Thank God for social media. I’m not stalking her or anything like that. I only check up on her, to catch a glimpse of what life could have been like. I was so relieved she accepted my friend request years ago. That showed that she didn’t completely forget about me. I have to keep myself from liking all her pictures, like my nephew told me not to do, or else it might spook her and cause her to unfriend me. The thought of that makes me shudder.

My nephew, Bo, taught me that lesson a bit too late, though. Now she doesn’t reply to any of my Facebook Messenger messages anymore. She probably thinks I’m a creepy, old geezer who’s trying to rekindle something way too late.

I hate having all this free time on my hands and being alone in this empty apartment with just me and my thoughts that drive me crazy more and more each day. First thing every morning, I check her Facebook page for any new updates, then I turn the TV on loudly, partially due to my hearing loss and also to help keep my mind off her.

I can’t help myself from rehearsing over and over what happened between us so many years ago. If my memory is correct, I was pleasantly surprised when she showed up at my apartment unannounced one warm Saturday afternoon. She wore some tiny, white shorts that accentuated her long, slender legs, and a pink, flannel-like blouse with thin spaghetti straps, with matching pink flip flops. She looked absolutely delicious. Like they say today, she looked like a snack–a delectable one at that.

I remember us sitting in my living room, sipping on red wine, getting to know each other and laughing, and having what seemed to be a good time, then I invited her down to the garage to see my white Mazda Miata convertible. She asked if she could drive it, and the next thing I knew, we were on I-85 south, going 70 mph. Two hours later, we were on the side of the road buying peach ice cream from this little ice cream parlor. By the time we got back home, it was dark, and I felt I knew everything about her. Fawn Daphne Willins was her name. She was 5’7’’ and played volleyball in high school back in Richmond, VA. She had a younger brother, and also had two daughters living together in San Diego, was never married, and made six figures working as a data analyst, and after our afternoon together, she was convinced that her next car would be a red Miata convertible.

She visited me at my apartment every night for dinner after that for the next three weeks. Cooking is one of my favorite things to do, and she took me up on my offer of testing out a few new recipes with her. The next two weeks after that, we had dinner at her apartment, which was right below mine on the second floor of our building.

One month later, during dinner at my place, Fawn told me her job was transferring her to Austin, TX, and asked if I would consider relocating with her. I was taken aback. We had become so close, so fast. She was a magnificent woman. The thought of her walking out of my life was unbearable, but at the same time, moving to another city was equally unsettling. I had moved to the beautiful Queen City–Charlotte, NC, a few years ago, and had grown to love the place tremendously. I knew every street and neighborhood like the back of my hand. The nightlife was exciting. The restaurants were phenomenal. The people displayed perfect southern hospitality. I really did not feel like starting over in another location. But, at the same time, I didn’t want to lose this incredible lady sitting across from me.

It was a Saturday morning, four days later, as I walked to my Miata to retrieve my laptop, I saw a note under the windshield wiper. It was a handwritten note left by Fawn. After reading it, I ran up to her apartment in a panic and frantically knocked on the door. No answer. I couldn’t believe it. The note said she had left in the middle of the night and expressed how disappointed she was that I didn’t jump at the opportunity to follow her to the ends of the earth, if need be. She expressed hope in our relationship and left me with her new address if I ever felt moved to pay her a visit.

Over the next few months, we visited each other every three weeks. I flew into Austin to see her first. Three weeks later, she flew to Charlotte. Then the visits just stopped when I flew to Austin a few days earlier than usual onr time and used my key to enter her apartment. There she was, with some guy sitting on the couch laughing. They both stood up quickly as if I caught them in the middle of something. Fawn came over to me and gave me a kiss and asked why didn’t I tell her I was arriving earlier than expected, then turned to the guy and introduced me to “Bill”, her neighbor. I shook his hand, but did not like what I had just seen. Bill excused himself and left. Fawn asked me not to look at her like that and swore that she was just having an innocent conversation with her new neighbor, who had just helped her with a flat tire. She had invited him up for a Coke as a sign of thank you, and that was all to it. I didn’t believe her. I don’t know why. I’m not the jealous type at all. She begged me not to leave, with tears in her eyes. I left anyway and spent the night at a hotel near the airport. I was catching the first flight back to Charlotte in the morning.

The minute I got back to Charlotte, I regretted leaving the woman I loved in Austin. Deep down, I knew Fawn was a good woman and would never cheat on me. I felt like a first-class bum for insinuating that she was cheating on me. I wanted to call her and apologize, but my pride got in the way. I had ignored all her phone calls and texts all night long. How could I ever face her again?

Fawn and I never saw each other again until many years later on Facebook. I was surprised that she even accepted my friend request, but grateful. Pride is such a terrible thing.