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REGRETS ONLY - limited edition appearance
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Regrets Only
By John Bolton 17-06-98
The following story is dedicated to all those who, at some time in their lives, have had a door slammed in their face by love. The characters are fictional, and there is no intended resemblance to real events. At least not real events in my life. But so many people have had, for whatever reason, cold water tossed over the flame of their affection for another person. And this, then, is dedicated to them.
I'd led a fairly prosaic existence before she entered my life. I felt blessed when she fell into my world. But that sense of fortuity soon dissipated, as such feelings often do. Sure, fate had put a rug under my feet when she came along. A beautiful rug, woven of the finest material; soft to the touch, comely to the eye. But fate had only put that rug there so it could yank it from under me. When she finally dumped me, I took a twisted pride in adding her name to my growing list of reasons for dying.
In many ways I should have seen it coming. Someone as beautiful as her simply couldn't have anything to gain from being with someone like me. As someone once asked me in high school, "Is that your lower lip, or are you wearing a polo-neck?" I got used to abuse. With a name like Ambrose Acumen, a certain level of mockery is only to be expected. But God, how I regret the day when Abigail (my sister's boyfriend's neighbour's girlfriend's younger sister's boyfriend's brother's best friend's sister) discovered Acumen is Latin for 'penetration'. A whole new spectrum of abuse began that day. Funny, since Abigail's surname was Ructare-Euomere, itself Latin for 'belch-vomit'. I wish I'd found that out fifteen years earlier.
But anyway, I was telling you about Alice. Such a pretty name. The shortest ones are always the best. I mean, I've met maybe a dozen nice Janes, but a single nice Georgiana. Or Juliana, for that matter. Yes, Alice was really something. Her hazel eyes blazed like winter fires, her smile was as radiant as the sun emerging from clouds on a rainy day. She was everything I'd hoped my dream woman would be. She shared the same hoped that I did, she laughed at the same jokes that I did. She was my everything, my all. Then she dumped me, and the poems I wrote about her took on a marked change in tone. "An ode to my Venus" was re-written to the tune of "A few lines about some wench I knew". Yes, the day she dumped me was the day a part of me disappeared. I've never really claimed back that part of me. I guess it's still out there, drowning Alice's pets, or letting the tires down on her car.
It was a sunny day, a lot like the day I asked her out. The birds were singing with a special fervour, the clouds in the sky were the softest, sweetest wisps. It couldn't have been a more perfect day, yet it couldn't have turned out any less perfect. I'd been in a particularly pensive mood, something that had become habitual with me. Not the only thing that had become habitual, but I was only a teenager then. O was pensive because I'd recently become fascinated by the mysteries of the universe. I became a freelance philosopher, offering my pointless views to anyone who'd listen and, if that failed, anyone who wouldn't listen. My hairdresser heard all about my theory of dualistic sexual potential (that, basically, there are two kinds of woman; those who'll sleep with you, and those who won't). My parents despaired of me. I'd taken to talking to myself about my theories on the meaning on life, and I became convinced even I was ignoring me. But I digress.
That morning I'd just got to school when Alice's best friend cornered me in a corridor. After some rudimentary jostling we were able to find a more open space where, in her kindest voice, she told me Alice was dead. That, by all accounts, had been her attempt to break to me the news of Alice's new boyfriend. Of course, Alice was very much still alive, very much still in bed with her new boyfriend Craig. Such a stupid name. God, how I hate monosyllabic names. Anyway, I went to my tutor group convinced Alice was dead. In ten minutes my entire world had collapsed around me. The more I knew of that day, the more I wanted to be rid of it. The teacher, of course, wanted to know where Alice was. And so, in floods of tears, I had to break the news of Alice's death. By lunchtime the entire school was utterly convinced that Alice was dead. All of her friend had gone home in tears, including the friend who told me the bad news in the first place. When Alice turned up to school for the afternoon session, I had some serious explaining to do.
Alice, too, had some explaining to get through. But, as if life is ever that simple, she didn't get round to it immediately. First, I had to endure an hour of English.
To be concluded....
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