No Regrets
- Feb 1, 2019
- 4 min read
by Caitlin Cording
I bite into the bar of honeyed peanuts and chew until my jaw aches.
A stranger to my left. A man with blotchy cheeks and slicked-back hair. He breathes heavily.
In, snuffle, out, snort. In, snuffle, out, snort.
Tick tock goes the clock.
I chomp on my bar.
His head jerks up. “That stuff is evil.”
Says the man with three chins?
My gaze flicks to the vending machine crammed with Satan’s sweets.
“You’re right. I should be burned at the stake for my heresy.”
His bristly moustache twitches. Amusement dances in his eyes. Pale-blue eyes, not unlike my own. The skin around his is a little more creased.
“I’m not a great lover of food that comes out of machines,” he says, throwing an arm at the one I just bought from.
“You’re opposed to convenience?”
He grunts.
“Anthony.” I extend my hand.
We swap polite smiles.
“Dawson,” he says, his tone stiff. He clasps my hand. Warm, sticky skin on mine.
“You come here often?”
“Yes, yes, three times a week. Necessary if I want to keep on breathing, you see.”
Right.Breathing.
“You?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m just here to meet someone.”
He goes back to staring at the magazines splayed over the coffee table. I go back to staring at the door directly opposite. Doors. There are many surrounding this waiting room.
He jabs a thumb at my bar. “I knew a woman who used to make those.”
“Really?”
A chuckle. A harsh sound that echoes. “Shame she was about as brittle as the nuts.”
My mouth twists. I crack my fingers.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
A machine behind one of the doors whirls to life.
“My girlfriend is pregnant,” I blurt.
His wiry eyebrows shoot up.
“Sorry, I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I’m bursting. We only found out last week.”
“Bursting.” He rubs his chins. “You’re young.”
“Twenty-four.”
He clucks his tongue and shuffles forward. The chair creaks. Yellow stuffing bulges from the seams. “Too young, too young. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an apprentice for a mechanic. The pay isn’t great, but I’m working my way up. I want my own garage one day.”
“Never happier than when you’re fixing cars, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He clucks again. “I felt the same about ships. Spent my life serving in the navy.”
He rolls up his sleeve and shows me a faded sailor tattoo.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
“Take my advice, son, leave her, leave the kid. Go after your dreams.” He flops back into his seat. The chair groans. More stuffing pops out. “That girl I knew? The one who made bars like those? I was your age when she told me she was expecting.”
I cock my head. “What did you do?”
His chest is rattling now as he snuffles and snorts. Is he asthmatic? I’m asthmatic. Perhaps I ought to offer him my inhaler.
“The best thing…the best thing any young man can do in that situation. Run.”
I cough, splutter. Cover it up—pretend to clear my throat. A machine behind one of the many blue doors fires up. The whirling and swishing make it sound just like a washing machine. I suppose it is in a sense. A washing machine for blood. Dialysis is odd.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
The cleaner arrives. Disinfectant spices the air—the cheap kind. Must be the cutbacks.
“Are you on the list?” I ask. Change the subject, yes that’s good.
His chins wobble as he shakes his head. “I’m too old for a new organ, son.”
Too old? If my calculation is correct, then he’s forty-eight. Surely that’s too young to be considered old?
He picks up a magazine. I take another bite of my bar. He snuffles and snorts. I crunch. The clock on the wall ticks down the seconds, the minutes—how many of those does he have left?
“Are you here with anyone?” I ask.
“My wife. She’s waiting in the car. She says she doesn’t like the noise of the machines.” He gestures to the doors.
“That’s understandable.”
“It’s not. All she needs to do is turn her hearing aid down.”
I close my eyes trying to imagine what she looks like. What their life is like together. I picture her as a homemaker, the type to always wear an apron and rubber gloves. I’ll bet she bakes. I’ll bet she sews. I’ll bet he’s had a comfortable life with her.
“What about children?” I ask. “Do you have those?”
“Two. Best things that ever happened to me.” He pulls a napkin from his pocket, dabs at his face then leans in. Hot, sour breath hits my face. “The trick is in the timing. They all came at the right time. You understand?”
I chew on my peanuts, making a point of slapping my tongue. He draws back.
The cleaner squirts some more disinfectant.
“You mean you had them when you were married, settled, secure in a job?” I ask.
“It’s the only way, son. Trust me.”
The only way. Hmmm.
“So, you’ve no regrets?”
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Snuffle, snort. Snuffle snort.
“No.” He dabs at his forehead again with the tissue. “No, none at all. Regrets are for fools. Why do you ask?”
I shrug and take another bite of my bar. It’s not as good as the ones my mum used to make. The honey isn’t as sweet. The peanuts aren’t as crunchy. I miss my mum’s. I miss my mum.
Door hinges creak. Our gazes travel and land on a nurse.
“Dawson? Dawson Smith?”
“Well, this is me, son.”
We swap polite nods. He stands. I stand. He waddles toward the nurse. I stroll toward the exit.
“Wait!”
I peer over my shoulder.
His wiry brow is touching his hairline. “I thought you were here to meet someone?”
A smile curls my lips. “Oh, I was.”
I pass through the automatic sliding doors and chomp on the last of my bar.
Caitlin Cording is a full-time writer concentrating on her first novel. She recently obtained first prize in the Reader Writer Lounge International Short Story Competition and has had her works accepted for publication in a handful of literary magazines. She lives in Wales with her wife and son.
