I regret...

The horizon glows in muted shades of coral and salmon as the sun descends into the sea. A handful of remaining stragglers fold their umbrellas, shake sand off their towels and stuff them into their bulging bags, pausing to gaze longingly at the exquisite sunset before trudging through the sand back to their bungalows.

In the nearby small town, cinnamon-hued dust clouds billow ethereally, propelled aloft by the bald tires of dented rusty old pickup trucks; their worn-out shocks jostling their riders on the lumpy dirt roads where an army of mangy dogs roam.

These were my first impressions of the tiny, impoverished Mexican town I would call home for the next five days. Deep in my soul, I knew this town­—with its dust, dogs, and filthy roadside restaurants—was somehow more me than the glamourous streets of New York, or London, or Paris.

Perhaps it was because I was deeply in love with my fellow traveler­­—acutely, in fact, for the first time in my life. I knew within days of meeting him I was orbiting in a wildly different universe than I’d ever visited before or, should it come to an end, would ever visit again. None of my previous relationships ever led to my feeling, unequivocally, as though I had no other option but to slam on my brakes, pull into a parking spot, and just be. Until him. So, when he asked me, I had to go to Mexico with him. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.

He was distant and reserved, holding back emotion. How could I possibly love a man like this? Perhaps I would find the answer over the course of our days together. His playfulness and wicked humor ensured that every day would be filled with laughter and more tequila than is necessary in life. Meanwhile, my previous notions about what is, or is not, necessary in life fell by the wayside each day I spent with him.

Early the first morning, while he lingered in a deep slumber, I observed the rise and fall of his muscular torso exposed above the bed sheet and listened attentively to the tranquility of his slow, deep breathing. From the vantage point of my soft, fluffy pillow, I gazed out the glass doors as the sun slowly rose over the clear pale-green water. Perfect white, tan, and golden seashells were gently tumbling as gifts all over the shore for early risers to collect.

I arose with a stretch, throwing on the clothes I’d hastily discarded on the floor the night before when I wanted nothing more than to climb into bed next to him and caress his warm, tanned body.

Quietly, so as not to awaken him, I slid the glass door open to step out and stroll the beach alone. I filled my pockets until they were overflowing with shells. Then I plopped down on the warm sand to watch the sun continue to rise as the tide methodically brought each wave a little closer to my toes.

Middle-aged locals, with their weathered and worn skin and hunched backs from wares loaded onto thick wooden dowels, whose weight they bore across their shoulders, approached me striving to tempt me to buy something, anything. But I wanted for nothing that day.

“No, gracias. No tengo dinero,” I replied. They smiled and offered to come back “más tarde.” I returned their smiles, albeit with less enthusiasm, and quietly sighed, “No, gracias.”

I wanted simply, love. But in case that wouldn’t be forthcoming, all I wanted were the gifts in my pockets the sea had tossed ashore—beautiful, perfect seashells—to remind me of these five days.

We talked about nothing. We ate. We swam. We went for walks. We made love on the beach. We drank tequila. Too much tequila. We made love some more. We slept. We awoke at sunrise. We sat on the beach gazing at the daily pastel sunsets. More toes digging into the sand. More wading ankle-deep in crystal-clear water. We made love again. We talked about everything. We smiled. We laughed.

But I knew in my heart he did not return my love. His detached demeanor spoke volumes; louder than any words he could have articulated. I so wished to tell him I loved him, but self-preservation consumed me. I remained silent.

I hoped he would change; he would grow to love me. But he did not. He could not. He was a rolling stone. He could never get too attached. And so, he couldn’t possibly love me the way I wanted him to.

On the morning of the culmination of our five days together, we silently loaded up his truck, then headed back toward the U.S. border. His head snapped sharply, as he spoke with acerbity and condescension, “Don’t say a word when we get to the border patrol.”

His words stung. I silently frowned and turned away to look out my window at the passing arid desert scenery. Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop them from spilling down my cheeks. His words conveyed a complete lack of confidence in my ability to navigate such a simple transaction as handing over my passport.

We were nearly silent the rest of the 3-hour drive to the airport where I was to fly back home that night. He escorted me into the airport, walked me to security, and kissed me goodbye, but few words were spoken. I didn’t want to believe what I knew to be true. It was the end. Eventually our communication stopped completely. And sadness enveloped me for months.

The seashells I had collected in the warm glow of the sun as cool water danced around my ankles on that beach in Mexico, are now carefully arranged on a bed of sand in a glass bowl, which sits up high atop a closet shelf. Not gone, not forgotten, but also not in front of me as a daily reminder of what might have been.

And I regret … nothing …