It started with a look. He looked at me. I looked at him. From there, it grew. He walked up to me and stumbled over his words as he asked if he could buy me a coffee.

"Cappuccino, please." I tossed my head a little, hoping it will settle my unruly hair into place. He smiled and nodded, then turned toward the counter.

"Two cappuccinos, please," he told the barista. When he walked over several minutes later, holding two steaming cups, he set them both on the table and then held out a hand. "I'm John, by the way. John Starley."

"Emma." I took his hand and could almost feel his fast-beating heart through his skin. "Emma Prince. So, what do you do for a living?" As I spoke, I wrapped both hands around my paper cup and took a long sip, letting the warmth steady me.

"I'm a musician. I was actually here scouting, trying to find new venues. This is the fifth. coffee shop I've visited today." He laughed lightly. "I'm getting quite jittery from all that caffeine." I laughed in return, but secretly filed away that information. No wonder his heart was beating so quickly! "What about you?"

"I'm a writer," I told him. I tapped my laptop, which sat on the table. "Mostly short stories, a little bit of poetry. I'd like to write a novel, but I struggle to find a sufficient idea."

"What are you working on today?"

"A poem about the Ugly Duckling." I blushed deeply at such a childish subject.

"Tell me more," he asked, leaning forward and looking deeply into my eyes.

We met again the next day for coffee, and the day after for dinner, and that weekend we took a trip to the next city over, where John had a gig. With each date, we fell more in love... or at least I did.

As time went on, we spent all our time together. I went to all of John's performances, no matter how far they were, and my life was consumed with helping John with his career. I became a manager of sorts, finding places for him to play and helping him set up.

For our six month anniversary, he took me to Stella, a small restaurant in the posh part of the city. Reservations were booked for six months at a time, so I was unsure how he had done it. Had he planned to take me from our very first date?

I didn't wait long for my answer. Dessert was a lovely chocolate lava cake filled with a sparkling diamond ring! As the ring tumbled out after I took the first bite, John grabbed the ring and got down on one knee.

"Emma Prince. From the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. From that first moment, we clicked: we belong together, you and I. Emma Prince, will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you be my wife?"

I was crying. Big, salty tears fell all over the chocolate cake and I couldn't speak. I nodded silently, unable to voice the "yes" that was screaming inside my mouth.

"Yes." Finally it came. Broken, tear-filled, but very clear: "Yes, of course!" I reached out my hand, which trembled as he put the ring on my finger.

The next day, John lost a spot at a prestigious venue, opening for a popular artist who was holding a fundraising concert there. John was upset, more upset than I'd ever seen him.

"How could this happen? Didn't you tell her agent how important this is to my career? Didn't you tell them how pleased I am for the opportunity? How could you let this happen, Emma? This is your fault!"

"John–"

"No! This is your fault, Emma. You'd better pray I recover from this." He slammed the door and stormed out.

He came back later, bearing flowers and apologies and begging for me to take him back.

"Of course I forgive you. Everyone gets angry sometimes."

Little did I know that "sometimes" was about to become "always." Soon, he was always angry. Everything was my fault, everything was wrong, and he never took the blame. I wanted to leave, but my life revolved around John now. I had quit writing–there was no need, and no time since I started acting as John's manager and planning a wedding. We had been dating for a year, engaged for six months, and no part of my life was absent of him. My family was far away, my friends and I had drifted apart, and I was alone.

Why do I want to leave anyway? I wondered. I love John, and he loves me. Nothing else should matter. I'm in the best place I can be: with him.

There is a disease of the deciding power that is becoming widespread: No matter where we are, majority of us wish we were somewhere else.

Are you happy with where you are?

Some of us, no-matter what we choose, always wish we had chosen differently.

Some men cannot choose a wife. Not because they are afraid of becoming a husband; but because they are afraid they will miss out on ‘someone better.’

And some of us, once we choose a thing and it becomes ours, immediately regret it.

My neighbor is infected with this condition. For years he wanted a Chevrolet. In fact, he said he would never drive anything else. So after hours of hard work and saving, he bought a Chevrolet. The minute he drove it home and parked it in the garage he said to me, “I should have bought a Ford.”

Some people always think the grass is greener on the other side.

Mr. Shoulda settled in New York but wishes he had settled in Florida.

Mrs. Wishihad sent her boy to Yale but says Harvard is better.

I know employers that hire and fire people simply because they cannot settle. If they hire Johnny Someone they think they would have been better off hiring Nancy Nobody.

I even met a person once that told me that the biggest regret of her life was that she was born in Upstate New York and not California.

If you rent you wished you owned; if you have not this you wish you had that; if you own gold you wish you owned silver.

Whatever ‘it’ is, is not good enough; and whatever did not happen should have happened.

Life is what it is.

Enjoy it!

Don’t be a Wish-I-Hadn’t.

Don’t be a Wish-I-Wasn’t.

Don’t be a Wish-I-Didn’t.

Have confidence in yourself and make the best of your decisions.

The worst place to be is without a home. Way over middle age and sleeping on a roll away in your sisters house. Sharing a room with the cat litter box. No place of your own and no job. Family members thinking you are less than because you have no home. All of you things packed in boxes in the garage. Asking for money to pay for gas and car insurance. Feeling like no one really cares. The nieces and nephews think they are better than you. You have no hope, feeling like a failure, wanting to leave, having no where to go. Being embarrassed by circumstances created by the economy and death of a spouse. No on should ever go through this. This is the worst place to be. Without a home.

It will get worse

before it gets better.

Gently opening the door

so it won’t creak.

Sliding under,

slipping into darkness.

Coat hems

brush against

disheveled hair.

Hoping against hope,

absence

unnoticed,

undetected.

Wanting to vanish,

evaporate.

There would be

tears,

crying,

apologies,

later.

Now,

only shouting

and darkness.

The world

in a child’s eye.

Home

supposedly,

the safe space,

the best place.

It’s not,

nor has

it ever been.

The worst place in the world to be is alone

It has no actual physical address

It cannot be found on a map or with a drone

Not everyone is granted full access

For those that do quickly search for the exit door

No one ever wants to hang around

Enough is enough and less is not more

The lighting sucks and brings you down

Until you beg to just melt into the floor

Just let it be over once and for all

This place is the worst if not for the alcohol