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Just as she was about to walk away, her hands caught my attention. Her left hand, specifically. It was bare. “Where’s your ring?” She held her hand out and glanced down at it. “Oh, I took it off to go running.” It was the oddest thing. We’d already decided that she wouldn’t wear it in the office; she was concerned about the gossip and I agreed it was best to keep things quiet at work. But there was a deeply primal part of me that wanted to insist—no, command—that she wear my ring at all other times. Running, shopping, out with her friends drinking martinis—I wanted that ring on her finger.
