The Future I Kept

Sometimes people ask whether I regret Darius.

I wake before the alarm. A narrow band of morning light falls across the dresser; somewhere outside, a truck brakes at the corner. My phone lies face down on the nightstand. I leave it there.

I regret the money. I regret putting my name behind claims I had never checked. I regret how often I called it loyalty when I was afraid to admit I had been wrong about him.

I do not regret Lena.

The future I kept is not dramatic. Coffee cools beside work I chose. I pay bills with money already in the account. I can think of Lena tenderly without letting the thought lead me back to him. I can ask the man I love a question and wait for his answer without studying his face.

I grieved the future Darius had described to me, though we had never lived a day of it.

The one I built after him took years.

There was work I was proud to put my name on. There were mornings when I knew what had happened the night before, when laughter at breakfast did not mean we had agreed to forget something. The man beside me made promises sparingly. When he said he would do a thing, I could turn my attention elsewhere.

I stopped arranging my days around the possibility that Darius might finally choose me. My calendar filled in without him.

At first I waited for an apology. Later, I wanted news that he had failed without me. Even then, I was waiting for someone to tell me about his life.

One evening, with a dish towel in my hands and the kitchen window dark above the sink, I tried to recall his voice saying hold it down. I remembered the words, but not the sound of them in his mouth.

My own answer came back clearly.

No.