“Ethan?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
I suggested coffee to catch up, but she wanted
to walk. We strolled along the riverbank, the
setting sun at our backs.
“Do you still dance?” I asked.
“No. Can’t. My leg… the injury was pretty bad.”
The daily grind had dulled the sparkle in her
eyes, etched fine lines around them. Years of
separation had left only awkward silence
between us.
“How are you?” she finally asked.
“Good,” I said honestly. Stable, well–paying job,
paid off our house, happily married to my
college sweetheart, traveled the world. My life
was comfortable, challenging, fulfilling.
Everything I’d ever dreamed of.
<
10:20
She gave a bitter smile. “That’s good.” Her
eyes flickered to the shopping bag in my hand.
“For my wife,” I explained. “She loves
handbags. All colors, to match her outfits.”
She muttered, “Looks more expensive than the one my husband bought his mistress.”
I didn’t respond. Kicking someone when they
were down wasn’t my style.
“It’s pathetic, I know,” she said quietly, “but I thought my life would be perfect. Marry the man I loved, have a career I loved, buy all the
handbags and clothes I wanted, dress up every
day. And now… look at me. After I turned
eighteen, it all went downhill. I feel like I’ve just
been drifting, married to a mediocre man, living
a boring life. I’ve become everything I used to
hate. How did this happen?” Her voice was
barely a whisper, talking more to herself than to
- me.
I remembered a quote, rephrased it for her.
“There’s this story about a beautiful girl who
finds a gun. She’s young, reckless, fires it off
without a thought. Years later, when she’s
thirty, life has worn her down. She’s walking down the street, hears a faint whistling sound
behind her. She turns – and the bullet she fired
at eighteen hits her right between the eyes.”
She was silent for a long time. I think she
understood.
I checked my watch. “It’s getting late, I have a
flight to catch. Someone’s waiting for me at
home.”
As I got into my car, I heard her choked voice
behind me. “I regret it, Ethan. I really regret it.”
I looked in the rearview mirror. She stood there,
motionless, the dim streetlight casting a long,
bleak shadow. After a while, she sank to the
ground, sobbing.
Life is a series of choices. Sadly, Sarah had made the wrong ones at the crossroads.
If Sarah could talk to her eighteen–year–old self, what would she say? I think it would be this: “You’re at the best time of your life. So please, study hard, and create your own brilliant future.”
The End –
