Three tiny diamonds.
A narrow scratch along the edge.
I’d made that scratch helping Claire move a refrigerator years earlier.
My wife’s wedding ring.
I looked up.
“Claire?”
She stared at her hands.
Bare hands.
No ring.
“Why is this here?”
She didn’t answer.
My heart began pounding.
“Are you leaving me?”
Claire covered her face.
And started crying.
Not loudly.
Just quiet, exhausted sobs.
I moved toward her.
She shook her head.
“Please don’t.”
I stopped.
“Claire, talk to me.”
She lowered her hands.
“I’ve been trying, Archie.”
Something about the way she said it frightened me.
“How long has your ring been in there?”
“Four months.”
I stared.
“Four months?”
She looked at my wedding band.
“You’ve worn yours every day.”
“Of course.”
“And mine has been gone for four months.”
I looked at her finger.
Really looked.
There was a faint pale mark where the ring used to sit.
