AND THEN THEY WERE ON ME, regrets. Tailing my car. Spotted in the rear view mirror, turning up in the kitchen at midnight like Los Angeles gangster hitmen. They wanted to have a word with me, a word or two about things, a word from the boss. Talk things over, talk things through. Talk about those regrets. Yet I did not have them, or at least not sufficiently. For if I did not feel the regret, the lament, the sadness over what might have been, if these grim wreaths of regret did not sprout organically within my being, then could I ever consider them genuine? They remained relentless, in hot pursuit. Watching me from the corner booths of midnight diners, over the tops of morning newspapers, whispering. They nipped at my heels like annoying tropical fish, hastening me to remove my hat at every juncture or circumstance, to drown people in apologies, condolences, outpourings, sorrows. I’m sorry for coming and I’m sorry for not coming. I’m sorry for saying and I’m sorry for not saying. I’m sorry for what I have done and for what I have left undone. Oh, Lord, if you only knew how sorry I was. Can you ever forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done? But I’m not sorry. Truly, I’m not. Not sorry at all. I took responsibility, sure, I told these surly underworld figures that I was behind all of it, but I was not sorry. Tell your boss that I can see the accident or the misfortune, the bend in the road, but I can’t regret taking it, I told them. Tell your boss that I’m just a sweating, sentient incarnation after all, a blood that rushes and pumps, is repulsed. You want me to be sorry for that? No. I’m not. I’m through with apologies. I’m through with regrets. I am through. If you want the truth, I relished it all and then some, all of the mistakes too. The drama, the outbursts, the chaos. I loved all of it, the worst, most godawful parts in particular. These parts I relished the absolute most. I loved them because I loved this life. I have no regrets. I’m not sorry. So sorry I’m not.

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