Remembrance of nothings past

It's amazing, sometimes, how things that failed to happen, things, of course, that are as implacably immutable as those that did, can haunt you just as much, and have consequences as real, as the actualities. I hadn't thought of C for years before yesterday, but the 'broken bridge' (one of my occasional allusions for the Nabokovians out there) that brought him to mind has set off an avalanche of regret and surmise (another small literary allusion which has nothing whatever to do with V.N.). C and I did get along pretty well, he was certainly a cutie, if not a supercutie, at 14 (and still is now, in his mid-twenties, to judge by his profile picture, although maybe that's just me looking and seeing the echoes of the boy I knew), and that evening, walking back from the village pub, with the rest of his family mere feet away, he truly was desperate to get me in his bedroom (please, please, he said, yes, he really did say that). But I shit out, too scared of potential consequences. No doubt leaving him feeling horribly rejected, even if the excuse I used, of having to get up stupidly early for work the following morning, was factually accurate. And the last chance I've had to this day, maybe the last of my whole life, to be with a boy was gone. What a fucking moron I was, and am.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B