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I think regrets are such a tragic waste of time and energy.  Yet, I would be lying if I said that I don't have regrets about trying again that night with Michael.  I still doubt we would have had a relationship, even if we'd had sex again, but it might have made us both feel better.
    I didn't try sex again, at least with another person, until the Frenchman.  Why it all seemed so easy with him is anyone’s guess.  I'm sure his experience and the subtle but firm way he took control was most of it.  Maybe it was just time and I was ready.  Maybe, because of what happened with Michael, I was finally able to let go of things from my past, things that never should have happened to a small child and thus move on.  I do know I'll always be grateful to him because whether he knew it or not, something happened that night that finally set me free.

 
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    Date Night
    He took me to see Les Misérables in Auckland one night many years ago now, and we dressed to the nines for the occasion.  My cocktail dress was short, with killer heels and a tiny bag with nothing but my lipstick in it and a few dollars.  He loved me in red; we could barely keep our hands to ourselves as we made our way to our seats.  It was my first live theater show and I was so excited, I could hardly breathe.
    What I remember most, apart from the outstanding performance, was forgetting to tuck a hanky into the sparkly bag I carried and his words afterward.  Barely ten minutes into the performance, I was sobbing at the drama unfolding on the stage in front of us, gripping his hand tightly.  Thankfully he had a handkerchief.
    Later at the end of the show as he tilted my chin upward with a finger and saw the tear streaks on my cheeks, the make-up a smudged ruin on my face and my red nose nearly glowing in the dim lighting, he asked, with worry in his voice, if I had enjoyed it.
    I grinned like a demented person and told him how marvelous it was as he threw back his head and laughed.  He kissed me and said that I was the most beautiful woman in the world and that he loved me.  It was the first time that he’d said it that night.  Even now, when I hear music from Les Misérables, or see the dress I wore that night tucked into the back of my wardrobe, I smile, and I remember.

 
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    Epilogue
    Who is this woman that stares back at me with that stupid frozen smile?  Lillian came and went.  She left me an outfit on the bed and on a different day I might have even noticed.
    Even now, though I am ready and dressed, I feel… nothing inside.  All my hopes and dreams are ashes.  The smile is nothing more than a facsimile.  Though his voice is still strong inside me, urging me to “Buck up girl... my beautiful girl... I love you sweetheart, forever and always…”  Fuck.  My mascara.  Why did I put it on?  I never wear this shit!  I cry All... The... Time...  And I HATE to cry.  I would rather scream.  I’ve done too much of that too.  Missed too much already, drugged up on sleeping aids – like that shit is going to help.  Everything is still the same when you wake up.
    We know right?  I mean, we all know that life is fleeting, that everything ends.  But no one can prepare you for the pain.  I don’t understand how I can be functioning at all!  Can everyone not see the blood that pours freely from me?  Mortally wounded I am.  I want to die.  I want to burn the fucking house down for you are everywhere love.  I can’t bear to be here and yet I can’t bear to leave this place for a moment.
    They tell me it will take time.  Eventually it WILL get better.  Think of your sons.  Remember the good times you shared.  Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!  I’d give it all for just one...
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    Day!