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A quote: “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.” ~~ Sydney J. Harris
I’ll start with a story …
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She stuck it out until the third act. But the seat beside her, the one for her husband, was empty. Again.
Oh, it was a fine play, one she even thought she would audition for. But the disapproving glance, the slightly tightened jaw muscles put the kibosh on that little fantasy.
She was still looking at her phone after she booked her autonomous ride home when she stepped out to the sidewalk straight into rain.
Great. Her designer dress ruined. Not that he’d notice. Her life was her stage. Acting happy in a marriage that provided her with a fancy house and trimmings. Except … There was no one to blame but herself. Missed her chance years ago.
She remembered too well looking back at Bill, waving, as she left for New York. His face, those eyes …
Her ride arrived and she slipped into back with a sigh, closing her eyes as the car slid back into traffic.
She started, opening her eyes with no idea how long they’d been closed. Panicked she didn’t recognize the neighborhood. It was dark, and as she fumbled for her phone she jumped at the knock on the window. “Hey, are you ok? Are you lost?” and the voice died as the window came down and she found herself staring out at Bill.
“No, I don’t think so.”
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
Cameron says: She was beautiful. That was my first thought. Something about the way the light reflected off her had my attention. I walked up to her and she stared at me curiously.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Sorry to bother you but I wanted to at least introduce myself. You seem to be a bit distracted.”
She nodded and pointed to a building. “Do you know that over there was a granary? It was a marvelous structure.”
“Well, yes but time moves on,” I answered. “Nothing wrong with noticing what was lost but-”
“What was lost?” she repeated. “Over there, fields. And there was a blacksmith’s place not far down the road.” She shook her head. “It’s like an entire era just vanished.”
“I wouldn’t say no one cares. It’s just that things change for good and for bad. The needs of a town don’t stay static and neither do the people.”
She frowned. “I guess I’m being nostalgic for something long past.”
I grinned. “I get it. Oh by the way? You’re wrong. That granary was actually the next block over.”
Her eyes widened. “Who are you?”
“Like you, someone that forgot to move on with time. Want to get a drink?”
My father was not happy when I decided to go to New York City to seek my fortune. I know he would’ve preferred I stay with him in Chicago, where he had his laboratories, his workshops, his factories that mass-produced his inventions that had changed the world, from the Picker to the Yates Bombsight and the Pneumatofier.
But here I can move about without my name following me, and the terrible story of my beginnings amidst the Turkish War, when the infamous Butcher of the Carpathians decided to kill his captives rather than surrender them along with the fortress where he’d held them prisoner. Without my father’s engineering genius, I would’ve died unborn, but to the people of the neighboring villages, his work was not lifesaving heroism, but an unnatural abomination.
He’d thought that if he took me back home with him after the War was over, the idea that I was the product of Frankenstein science would stay on the other side of the Atlantic. Except Chicago is still a very Midwestern city, surprisingly close to its roots in opinions and attitudes. An unmarried man can’t bring home a young child without setting tongues a-wagging, and his vague explanations about having rescued me from an atrocity only served to make matters worse. Surely he had to be concealing some indiscretion — and when the full story came out, things became worse. To be sure, Chicagoans weren’t going to grab torches and pitchforks like Rumanian peasants, but they had their own ways of marking me out as tainted, suspect. They would happily buy Nicholas Yates’ inventions, but they would not invite me to play with their daughters, to attend their parties and their celebrations.
Here in New York City, I’m just one face in the crowd. I’ve found work I do well, and nobody asks me about my irregular origins.
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