Late last night, after the fireworks, I was trying to seduce David.
"Wanna make out?"
I'll admit it wasn't my best effort. He changed the subject.
"What was your post about?"
I handed him my phone so he could read it.
Then he said, "Three out of the last four posts have a picture of me."
I may have a little obsession going and admitted as much to him. He smiled.
"I'm glad you're writing again." And he nuzzled my neck to prove it.
"Me too. Though the first chance I get, I've got to clean up that sidebar."
"Are you going to change the banner?"
I nodded, wondering how I could get him to nuzzle my neck again.
"And change the name?"
My eyes opened. Whoa. Tread carefully now. "No," I said, warning in my voice.
"But aren't you done having regrets?"
Poor man. He can't stand the thought of me being the least bit miserable. Even worse when it's my own doing.
"No. And this blog is the answer to those regrets."
And so I rehearsed it again. About how my greatest regret is the way I treat the people I love, how I don't say the things I should and how I always say the things I shouldn't, how I leave the most important things out, and only remember to include things about taking out the garbage and picking up the clothes. This blog is the answer to that. So that they will know for sure how deeply and fiercely I loved them, how awed and amazed I was by them, how carefully I watched them and how constantly I thought about them and how completely I measured and treasured my life by them.
The other regret, of course, is that I never did any writing, that I was too scared and too overwhelmed and too utterly terrified to even try.
"But did you ever explain that?" he asked, "About the two regrets?"
"Yes," I said, "and it's implied in every post I've ever written."
"I think you should make it a subtitle."
"A subtitle?"
"Ya, 'The Two Regrets: and then what you just said.'"
"You mean that paragraph I just said?"
He nodded. I grinned at the thought of a two hundred word subtitle. And it just got funnier and funnier until I laughed and laughed, loud enough for the whole house to hear.
Which turned out to be quite seductive.