Regret stopped by, knocking gently at the door; I was asleep, so I didn’t answer at first.

She left a photograph and a card: the card said, we were overdue for a visit; the picture was of you, back when your hair was longer, red and wavy.

Standing in the doorway, I felt a gentle fall breeze and a few of the sun’s early rays; looking at the photograph, I remembered how I would play with your hair for hours of an evening.

You never loved me, of course; but I was convenient for a time, until something better came along.

Regret placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t you miss her, sometimes, now?”

And I answered, “Not really; but what I do miss is the feeling I had when I believed it was possible to deserve love.”

I have never deserved it, of course: anyway, love and justice never remain in the same room for very long.