Her name was Daphne. She was a nursing student at the university. We met during my sophomore semester while waiting for coffee at the place all students called “The Hive”. I still feared commitment after the failed engagement, so I passed up the chance to pursue this beauty.
Now it is forty years later. Daphne is at the counter, buying something, not just for her but for her four grandchildren, it seems. They are happily bouncing around, enjoying the time with their grandma.
I stare at my perpetually bare ring finger, wondering about what could and perhaps should have been. It was not the first time I had lamented this fact.