No Regrets

Even the frigid wind at this altitude wasn’t enough to elicit any kind of feeling in the hunched-over old man sitting alone in the crowded cafe. His eyes had gone pale with age, his frown a permanent feature on his face, even when he wasn’t frowning. And now sitting there by himself, looking over the rooftops of his Paris and with Piaf playing in the background, he couldn’t help but think, what if he had made different choices?
    Shouting drew his attention to a family by the iron railing. They were loud. Rambunctious even. Their exuberant reaction to the view, a disturbance to everyone around them. Two children, a boy and a girl, and their parents. All young. All laughing.
    The man snarled. Then a nasty feeling crawled through his veins. It wasn’t carried through his bloodstream like a fallen branch caught in the rapids of a river ending up god-knows-where. No, it had its own agenda. Like a sluggish, tired animal, creeping up on him, it settled in his chest, in his throat, making his eyes water. He gasped for air. Although his heart sped up, he felt his body going tired. A wave of nausea made him turn his head away from the family before him, and he spat onto the green metal floor.
    No regrets.

©Karina Rye, August 19th, 2016