Steel-toed regrets

Fictional sketches from my notebook: 11/6/20

I didn't write tonight because I was picking at chipped nail varnish until my fingers bled — just a little.

I didn't write because I was scraping spilt wax off the mantelpiece, scratching marble older than me in the process. Itching a scratch (scratching and itch?) that doesn’t belong to me.

I didn't write because my eyes itched; I clawing at them until they bulged, bursting blood vessels.

Instead of writing,I eased the edges of a skull-aching headache with tendrils of gentle codeine.

I didn't write tonight because we drove aimlessly around town for two hours to avoid coming home.

My mind wandered freely in the half-light, under the twinkling headlights of a town tucked in for the night.

I didn't write because my chest felt hollow, my gut pinched from disappointment.

I didn't write as my mind buzzed with the anticipation of imminent trouble, which didn't come tonight but, nevertheless, looms large on my horizon.

You didn't write because revisiting the same old ground would make you seem obsessed.

You know there's a liminal space where things might have worked out with those people — family, friends, the stranger that barged into you outside the newsagents’ — insert/delete where applicable.

But you didn't write because things didn't work out, and the reality stings.

You didn't write because reflecting too much might lead you into the backseat of a stranger's car, where you'd dwell too heavily on the choices you made or didn't make.

It would be there that the steel-toed regrets would land their kicks.

Should I have written, then?