I go in the park and place myself on a bench in such a way that I can spot every1 who comes in and out of there. I see this young sardar no more than ...2, very well dressed and groomed stroll into the park, he is looking around and our eyes meet, I give him a smile and he smiles back and my GAYDAR (gay radar) starts to go off, telling me he is what I think he is and he was here for the same thing I was also. As you might have read in my earlier story SEX IN THE TRAIN, I love sardars and have. It is not about whispered repentance, anyone can do that – whisper ‘sorry’ on their deathbed and believe that will be enough.She knows it will never be enough, because she now understands true regret. It’s not lip-service, or a vague wish that you could change the past: it’s a rush of shame so strong it burns through you, changing you as it goes. Hammering you into a different shape, like a lump of metal at the hand of a blacksmith. Maybe that’s why they talk about hellfire.After she slipped. More

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