I'm Sorry....

First attempt at a short story - may submit to Ann's class, may not...

“Excuse me, do you have a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

The lady looked at me with a cocked head. “You don’t have to be sorry about that.” She turned away and walked into the store with her friend.

I stared after her, the cold wind blowing through my light jacket, making me shiver. I didn’t feel it. Why had I said I was sorry? I wasn’t really sorry. Smoking was nasty, it made my clothes stink and my asthma act up. I unconsciously finished loading the remaining groceries into the trunk of my car, pushed the cart to the corral, and made sure my child was buckled up before heading home.

It was difficult to drive. All I could think about was why I had said I was sorry to a woman I had never met about something I detested. What would drive a person to say that? It could be habit, I supposed. But how would that have started? I couldn’t take responsibility for everything, nor did I want to.

Maybe I was sorry. Not apologetic, but sorry. Was I weak? Was it perhaps a cry for help? “Help! I’m a sorry individual with no backbone. I hate disappointing people and want them to feel better, even if it is at my expense, which is alright.” I turned into the driveway and unloaded the car, the cries from my hungry child barely noted as the weight of my discovery bogged down my mind.

Feeling sorry for my child and in an effort to appease his hunger, I boiled over the noodles on the stove. Was this a consequence of being sorry? Was I such a sorry person I couldn’t make dinner without creating a mess that I would be sorry for later? Was I sorry so often that I no longer knew what the word meant?

“Ow, mama! Hot noodles!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweet pea,” I crooned at my son as I blew on his noodles to cool them off. He hated hot food. There it was again, that word that had so much meaning at one time and at other times was a filler word. I was sorry I had given my child hot food, whereas I could have given a hoot about that woman and her cigarette.

But that wasn’t true, either. I had felt bad that I couldn’t help her out, even though it was unhealthy. Maybe that was the truth of the matter. It wasn’t that I was a sorry person, but one that wanted to see everyone around me happy. I wanted to help people, to do anything I could to make them happy because it made me happy.

Would I always be sorry? Maybe I would, but after this discovery, I think I may feel better about it. Maybe being conscious of being sorry was the important thing.

I leaned against the door frame and watched my precious child eating his cooled noodles, using the manners he had been taught, and knew I wasn’t sorry - not in the least bit sorry.