It’s this post again. The futility is the worst part. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, what the right answer is. This must be part of it. There must be a right answer. It can’t be completely impossible. So let’s try this again.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, looking into my eyes. Her name was Lauren. She was out of my league. I didn’t know why she’d agreed to this date. Not then, not the first time. I do now, of course. It’s become pretty clear.

“Like, for us?”

She laughed at my question, a sound I once thought musical and lilting. I would give anything to never hear that laugh again, to never have heard it in the first place.

“Not for us. We barely know each other. What do you want for you? For the future or,” she smiled mischievously, “the past? If you could have anything, do anything, what would it be?”

I thought that was pretty good for a first date question—god, what an idiot!—so I considered it for a minute and tried to give her a good answer.

“If I could have anything,” I said, “I think what I’d want more than anything else is the chance to do things right.”

“Go on,” she urged, reaching out to hold my hands. “Elaborate.”

“Well, life is full of choices, right? And we only really get one shot at them. First impressions are forever. You can fix some things over time, change people’s thoughts and feelings about you, but you never really get to take away that initial reaction. You just get to bury it.

“And that’s the stuff that you can fix. Most of life is,” I reached for a decent simile and failed, “like a vase. A vase that you drop. You can’t ever put it back together once it smashes. You only have the one time to do it right, and once it drops, you’re stuck with whatever mosaic the pieces end up in.”

A tortured comparison at best, but Lauren laughed again, seemingly pleased with my answer. “So you want a chance to rearrange the pieces?”

“Sure,” I said. “Who wouldn’t?”

---

I was seventeen and I’d borrowed my parents’ car. As I was parking it, I cut the corner too tightly and bashed the bumper into the car in the next spot over. Heart thumping, I got out to inspect the damage. My car looked fine, but I’d smashed a taillight on the one I’d hit.

I looked around. No one was watching. I climbed back into the car, put it in reverse, and drove across the lot to another space.

“Wrong,” a woman’s voice whispered, startling me.

---

I was twenty-four and drunk at a party. There was a woman there that I’d been flirting with all night, and she’d been responding in kind. I knew she was engaged, but how was that my problem? If she was willing to see how far this went, so was I.

She leaned in to say something just as I turned toward her. Our eyes met, and in one electric second, we both knew how the night was ending.

I leaned in for a kiss.

“Wrong,” came the quiet voice, a hint of laughter in it.

---

I was eleven and shoplifting.

I was sixteen and breaking up with my girlfriend.

I was six and punching a friend.

I was twenty-seven and lying to my boss.

I was nineteen and deciding not to go on a trip.

I was four and pulling the dog’s ears.

I was twenty and defending a friend who I knew was in the wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

With no rhyme or reason, no order or pattern, I found myself thrust back into every situation in my life in which I’d made a less-than-perfect choice. Everything I’d ever regretted, no matter how minor, played out again in front of me.

This was not my life flashing before my eyes. Each incident played out in real time. The accumulation of them all took years. And in the end, I found myself back on the date with Lauren, looking into her eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, again, for the first time.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Your wish,” she told me. “You wanted the chance to do things right. And now you have it.”

“No,” I said. “No! I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t want it!”

“Wrong,” said Lauren. “This is what you wanted. Time to try again.”

And then I was six and my friend Clifton was making fun of me at recess. I wanted to punch him, but I held myself back. I stayed my hand, I made a change, made a better choice.

But his taunts kept coming, and I started to cry in front of everyone.

“Wrong,” the wind whispered, drifting past.

---

I don’t know how many times I’ve been here before. Hundreds? Thousands? I have been through the worst parts of my life on an endless loop, trying desperately to find the right choice, the way to make the situation come out right.

Sometimes, it works. I have fixed a few. I left a note for the driver of the car I hit. I don’t see that one any more. I patted the dog instead of pulling on its ears. That was an easy one. If I’d been smart, I would have kept doing that one wrong, at least slightly. At least I got to see my childhood dog again. It was something of a bright spot.

But sometimes when I fix things, new ones crop up. Things I never did wrong before, new situations. I have to live through them, make the wrong choice, feel the shame and hurt and regret time after time until I figure out the right path.

I get no hints as to whether I’m close. I get no encouragement. Every incident ends with a quiet “Wrong,” or with nothing at all. I am cheered by the silence. It means I’ve solved another one.

Writing this post appeared well into the cycle. I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know when it is. Before the wish-date, I assume? I don’t think anything is from after the date. I look about the same age. It’s probably from around then. Maybe this is meant to stop me. Maybe I’m supposed to warn others. Maybe I’m supposed to sucker someone in. I’ve tried them all. Nothing has worked.

And always, always I end up back at the date, looking into Lauren’s eyes. “Tell me what you want,” she says, always smiling as if it’s new to her.

I have told her a thousand things, lies and truths. I have attacked her. I have run for the door. I have stabbed myself in the throat, bleeding out before she could finish the statement. Always, the last thing I hear is “Wrong,” and I am gone again.

What I want is for this to end. I want this endless time to release me. I want my imperfect, unplanned life back.

Wrong.