Don't Regret Me

When I was young(er) and a tad pretentious, and thought I was a cross between Tallulah in Bugsy Malone and Courtney Love pre Kurt, I used to have quite a lot of one-night things, particularly with City boys (on the grounds that they were just fascinated by me, and attracted and repelled in equal measure by my rock bitch persona, which always made for taut, exciting sex).

Slightly emotionally damaged, I was convinced that this was absolutely the best way to be independent and interesting, and of course with the added bonus that no emotion means no hurt. Beano, incidentally, was the one who brutally cured me of emotionless sex.

Anyway, having seen or heard of countless women who would end a one night stand by leaving a phone number, or a faux-breezy note, asking the guy to keep in touch as they left his flat in the cold light of day, I was determined that I would be different in this regard as well. So in my youthful pretention, I used to leave a note reading "Don't regret me" with no phone number or even a name. I thought it was very sophisticated...

Last night I found one of those notes scrumpled in the bottom of a vintage clutch bag that I haven't used since before I met Him.

It felt painful, and alien, and sad.