So how important was the ring? His heart was 100% committed, but his pocketbook—their pocketbook—could barely cover the cost of these low-fat hazelnut lattes. He took a long sip and did a cute mock-pleasure moan. What was their priority—this cup of morning heaven or some hypothetical lump of gold? Did she see where he was coming from? What did she think?

The ring was a symbol, from her perspective, and as a symbol, it was probably more important than he realized. In fact she was sure of it. At a very high confidence level, as he would say. It may not matter today or tomorrow, but in the fullness of time, when they looked back on this moment, then yes, mucho importante. This was just her opinion mind you and irrespective of the cost or value of whatever the so-called “hypothetical” ring was made of.

Which brought him to something else he’d been thinking about, he supposed. The ring, yes, but lattes too—ha ha. Not everyone bought into the jewelry store industry fabrication of gold and diamonds = love, but they still found a way to reinvent the tradition, to make it fresh so to speak. He was not advocating for the rings-out-of-the-bubble-gum-machine approach, but how about customized ring tattoos—talk about forever!—or else something forged from nature rather than by the earlier mentioned jewelry store industry? Perhaps—just wondering out loud here—rings chiseled out of fossils or carved from wood, something representing their mutual dedication to sustainable ecosystems, how about rings made from bamboo, for example?

But wasn’t it too late for that? Just wondering out loud, as he would say, she said. He had clearly put a lot of thought into it, probably along with online research, price comparisons, etc., but the alternative-ring thing seemed like a fall-back position after his initial question, and didn’t that spoil it a little? Didn’t that mean they might have to bite the bullet and go the conventional route if only to avoid the slightly weird resonance this conversation had now conferred on any such alternative reinvention of the ring tradition? Just another one of her opinions. What did he think? And trust her 100% that she wasn’t going to be getting a ring tattoo.

Now he felt sheepish, but speaking of resonances, he wondered if she knew the true historical resonance of this handing over of precious metals, the transactional aspect of it. Did she know, for example, that before De Beers introduced engagement rings into the culture, the prospective groom handed over a bag of gold? Essentially a trade was being conducted, as if two people were at a market place exchanging shekels for salted fish.

Wow, lots and lots of online research there. Boy did he have plenty of time on his hands. And here she’d thought that the rings represented connectedness, without beginning or end, infinity, commitment… Thanks for setting her straight on the “true” fee-for-service resonance. Though perhaps multiple interpretations were possible. Perhaps a person’s interpretation said more about the person and his character than about actual resonance. Perhaps this wasn’t about rings at all. Perhaps it was more about compatibility. Just wondering out loud again, as he would say.       

He did not say it that often. It was a common expression so doubtless it sometimes came out of his mouth, but as far as he could tell she was the one who kept using it, though always attributing it to him. In any case, clearly he had touched a raw nerve, and looking back he could see how his words could be misinterpreted. He had been indelicate, too stream-of-consciousness, too open. He needed to better edit his inner thought process. This was something he would work on, as a person he meant. In other words, he was happy to give up the lattes. He pushed his cup down the table, as if it were distasteful to him. She understood that he loved her, right? In fact—and he knew this was asking a lot—could they just start over, pretend like this conversation had never happened?

She didn’t say anything for quite some time. Her own latte was still in her hands, and she took several long sips of it. Yes, she understood, she finally said, and yes again, starting over sounded like a good idea. In fact, why didn’t they go all the way back and start at the very beginning? Instead of rewinding a few minutes, how about rewinding the entire eight months of their so-called relationship? He could woo her all over again, sweep her off her feet all over again, this time showing her something new and fresh, this time putting his nose to the grindstone to earn the very best salted fish—ha ha. Good luck because trust her 100% he would definitely need it. She grabbed her latte, moved over to the next table, and began surveying the rest of the eligible clientele in the café.

He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it again. He knew she was joking, but not at a 100% confidence level; not even at an 80% confidence level, he had to admit. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, his one true love (at least to the extent that truth and love were anything more than cultural constructs), and losing her would be devastating. He tried to think up something attractive and surprising to say, something fresh. He tried and he tried, and he kept trying, long after the beautiful stranger sitting at the table next to him finished her coffee and went on her mysterious way.

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Louis Wenzlow grew up in suburban Chicagoland, and currently lives with his family in Baraboo Wisconsin. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in Cease Cows, Eclectica, International Poetry Review, and The Molotov Cocktail.

Photo credit: Terri Malone