Ring on my Finger
“Is that vintage?” she asked a bit loudly, motioning to my left hand. In a room crowded with lawyers drinking wine and drumming up business, it was difficult to hear. I looked down at my ring. It shone amber on sunny days, but now the green peridot surprised me with the brilliance of its sparkle under the dimmed lights. It was one of those evenings when I felt particularly not married. I certainly was not alone in my status; there were dozens without a partner. But a tender heart can fail to reason, even when residing in the body of
