Drenched in Regret

Con’s never been great at apologies. Yet he finds himself on a familiar doorstep, annoyed by the premature rain. It’s barely June, he thinks. But he stands, drenched, thick droplets falling around his feet. His hair is soaked and his shirt has become see-through. He’s embarrassed—not only about the visibility of his chest but because of what he’s about to do. With about as much dread in his stomach as water in his shoes, Con reminds himself why he’s here. He scratches at the skin on his thumb, wishing he lived in some hieroglyphic world where he could simply send Maya a postcard or a nice bouquet of flowers to let her know he felt guilty, and hoped she was alright. But that would be, at least according to his sister, a huge lack of effort. “Don’t you have any sympathy at all?” she had shrieked. Con had said nothing, knowing that he might burst into tears if he tried to speak. Con was always the type of person to just let things go, to move on and let the past be past. He’d realised, a little too late, that it was his way of turning a blind eye to things he’d felt too uncomfortable to address. In retrospect, the years he’d spent in ignorant bliss seemed shinier and sunnier than the recent weeks he’d endured. His sister’s voice in his head started up, saying “Everything looks better in hindsight, just because it worked out for you does NOT mean it was the right thing to do.” Con mentally shushed her before she could give him a diatribe which he knew would echo in his brain for a week. 

Con can’t quite remember how it had all happened. 

Or perhaps he chose not to.

It had been a warm evening, teetering on the edge of the relentless winter rain whose impending arrival he was oblivious to. That morning, Maya had kissed his face and asked, smiling, “Do you know how much I love you?” He’d bathed in those words like sunshine on his skin, and sailed through the morning with a warm bundle of nerves bubbling away in his chest. It had been, maybe, twenty five - twenty six degrees, with a forgiving breeze that teased the edges of his hair. Con is sure it was a normal day. Perhaps he’d gone for a walk, called his sister, answered questions about Maya; assuring her that, “Yes, I do love her,” and “Yeah, I’m treating her well.” Though the truth was that Con was never really… sure about anything. Maya was—objectively—beautiful, and he made sure to think of her brown eyes—like an owl’s—on the days he didn’t see her. But love? Love was something he didn’t entirely understand. He’d seen it happen to his friends, and in movies. He knew it was something desirable, that everyone wanted. He’d supposed he must’ve wanted it too. When Maya had come around in a wave of new friends and excited chatter, it had happened quickly. In the stirred air of congratulations from his sister, his family and friends, Con felt like he’d done something good.

Like a square of chocolate, Con lets that day sit in his mouth, rolling it over his tongue and trying to suck out new meaning, or retrace his steps to find out where it all went wrong. It all melts into his throat before he can remember that late afternoon.

It had been a text message—or a phone call? It had been an invite. Being Con, he had said yes, and found himself in the backseat of a taxi before he could think it through. It should have been, maybe, before he was on his third drink, his second conversation or the headache from the flashing lights, that he’d texted his sister to ask if the party was a good idea. Or better yet, to let Maya know what he was doing. But of course, over the haze of the smoke machine or the buzz of the bassline in his feet, Con hadn’t checked his phone. He wasn’t even certain it was still in his pocket. Or where his pocket was. All he could think of was the music, the feeling of being in a crowd and the heat of the bodies that surrounded him, the fact that he could hardly feel his forearms, or the ground. It might have been the lights that blinded his decision-making, or the thump of his heartbeat in the bridge of his nose, but he couldn’t feel the arms around him. Or the unfamiliar perfume on his shirt, or her lips on his. He didn’t hear the click of the camera, or the buzzing in his back pocket.

It was only the morning after that Con knew. That those lips weren’t Maya’s. 

And then the rain started. 

Ugly, fat droplets all over his face and hands. Thunder that rumbled and ranted.

“Look at what you’ve done” groaned the grey sky.

The cold weeks came around like a perpetual telling-off. The guilt had accumulated like tar on his teeth. He could hardly stand the disappointed looks in the mirror or the harsh texts from his sister. And so he knew. He must apologise.

Con’s shoes are getting wetter. It’s going to be alright, he thinks. I’ll apologise and she’ll understand. Con knows that Maya has a warm house, and he’s looking forward to drying his socks on her heater. Con stares at her doorbell, he can see the situation in his head — he’ll know exactly what to say, after weeks of rehearsing. He’ll show her how he’s changed, how he can address the things he’s done wrong. He’ll tell her how guilty he’s been feeling, that it was all just a mistake. Con is already smiling at the happy ending he has conjured. And then this rain will stop, he thinks. 

Con swallows the words that sit in his mouth. He rings the doorbell, and stares at the window on the top of the door. The yellow light bulb glows inside. Con’s heart races as he hears footsteps on the carpet, though he can’t tell if it’s just his chest thumping. Maya’s silhouette appears at the window, and pauses. Open the door, Maya, he thinks. He can almost visualise it.

But she doesn’t.

The shadow retreats, and it’s silent again. Apart from the beating of rain on the roof.

Con is suddenly aware of the puddle he is standing in, and the chill of disappointment on the back of his neck. 

He steps back, and walks into the rain.