She happened to have loved him. Why would you care if he —or she— were married to others, if he was French or Arabian, or Texan like your kin?
Regrets? Hell, no. She happened to have loved him. She will, years from now, regret that she happened to have smoked, but she will never find fault with the mystical connection she had with that man.
You, on the other hand, may later regret that you planted your butt in a chair at work all week—including lunchtime, and that you returned home to plant it again in a recliner while you criticized women who look like her on TV:
Hair's a mess..... Skirt's too short.....Is she even wearing a bra?..... Is she part Black or Hispanic? Well, I guess false eyelashes are making a comeback.....It's a shame that planting your butt in church pews all those Sundays didn't produce something more beneficial than condemnation of those who aren't like you.
Like her. She doesn't know you but if she did she might ask you for a light. She would smile and you would see how gracefully her eyes held tears that you would never see fall. She would not even notice your flag pin, nor the political or religious material you clung to, as she fanned smoke away from your direction. You might think her detached, but it is only that she understands transparency and flux. Everything is temporary in her world and the lack of importance she attaches to you could offend you or you might use it as a pinpoint from which to free her from your judgment and to see yourself.
She happened to have loved him.
Written for The Mag: Mag 126 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(Yesterday's Dreams, by Jack Vettriano).
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