Regrets
by Tracy Woodward
Nothing has really changed. Life, a string of empty moments—even
more now that he’s living alone. No more arguments. The doorbell rings, phone
alerts to important things. Child hollers, dog barks. In a week he’ll be back where
he started: TV addict, beer guzzler, Internet surfer. The end is the beginning
too.
What would it hurt? Another bad decision can’t do much harm
now, he thinks. The pulse behind his
temple expands like a swollen river, but finally he writes the email and
pauses, index finger lingering above the keyboard, then drops it like he’s
squeezing a trigger. SEND.
