The Great and Terrible Story of the Ring
When John gave me the engagement ring, it was too big.
"Let's go get the ring resized."
"Ugh, no I hate going to Green Hills. Some other time."
And we never go to Green Hills because we hate it. And so I would spin my ring around. And sometimes it would hurt my finger because it would flop up. But it wasn't a big deal, right? Right?
Tuesday. In the car. La di dah. "Isn't my ring pretty?" I happen to say to John. I say this periodically. I am an annoying person sometimes.
We go to the library. We tussle on the sidewalk. I wanted to hold hands; he thought I was seizing the car keys. Tickles. Silliness.
We head home. We are almost pulling into the drive when I notice my ring is missing. We look all in the car. I carefully get out and listen to see if it falls off my person. Nothing falls. We head back to the library just in case. We know that if I lost it in the library, we will never see it again. Public libraries are not places where lost valuables sit around unfettered. We are silent. I am utterly miserable.
John checks the path and I go into the library. I was going to head to the desk to see if anyone turned it in, but Miss Cathy is busy and so I retrace my steps.
There it is. My ring is in the floor at the self-checkout station. It's just sitting there on the carpet. I grab it and put it on. It is cold. I immediately burst into tears. Miss Cathy asks if I am okay and for a crazy second there I think she is going to hug me. I run to John, who is diligently checking the path. I cry right there in the park, in public. I have never felt such relief.
We decide to go to Green Hills right then, in our work clothes and everything. The jeweler will keep my ring until approximately the 17th.
My hand feels naked and sad. John goes to Claire's and buys me a plastic ring.
John is the sweetest person in the entire world.
"Let's go get the ring resized."
"Ugh, no I hate going to Green Hills. Some other time."
And we never go to Green Hills because we hate it. And so I would spin my ring around. And sometimes it would hurt my finger because it would flop up. But it wasn't a big deal, right? Right?
Tuesday. In the car. La di dah. "Isn't my ring pretty?" I happen to say to John. I say this periodically. I am an annoying person sometimes.
We go to the library. We tussle on the sidewalk. I wanted to hold hands; he thought I was seizing the car keys. Tickles. Silliness.
We head home. We are almost pulling into the drive when I notice my ring is missing. We look all in the car. I carefully get out and listen to see if it falls off my person. Nothing falls. We head back to the library just in case. We know that if I lost it in the library, we will never see it again. Public libraries are not places where lost valuables sit around unfettered. We are silent. I am utterly miserable.
John checks the path and I go into the library. I was going to head to the desk to see if anyone turned it in, but Miss Cathy is busy and so I retrace my steps.
There it is. My ring is in the floor at the self-checkout station. It's just sitting there on the carpet. I grab it and put it on. It is cold. I immediately burst into tears. Miss Cathy asks if I am okay and for a crazy second there I think she is going to hug me. I run to John, who is diligently checking the path. I cry right there in the park, in public. I have never felt such relief.
We decide to go to Green Hills right then, in our work clothes and everything. The jeweler will keep my ring until approximately the 17th.
My hand feels naked and sad. John goes to Claire's and buys me a plastic ring.
John is the sweetest person in the entire world.