There was a brief thing, a relationship, between a young man and a young woman.
Young meaning twenty or so. Young meaning dumb.
The love affair mattered more to one of them than it did to the other.
Turns out, it mattered more to him.
She’s gone. Nothing he can do about it now.
And he is still going to think about her when he is in his forties.
(Fifties. Sixties.)
Sorry, this happens.
Feelings can twist you up, turn you into a wet washcloth. But washcloths are useless and dated. Who really uses a washcloth?