i don't usually wear rings.

I’ve molded around this ring. Cheap, even free – you found it, you said, and wondered if I wanted it. You knew I never really wore rings. I took it, why not? I kind of like it, the boring, pewter-grey color of it, with scuffs and scratches already in place. It was a pair of shoes that was sure not to cause any blisters; someone else had already done the breaking-in, walking around, given it a taste of the average finger before mine. Left hand, middle finger: perfect. I kissed you and said thanks. And our new addition, this ironclad connection of ours, settled onto the base of my finger.

And it stayed there, pressing into my skin, as I told you I wasn’t sure. I nervously pulled it off, put it on, spun it between my fingers, as I tried to describe the darkening collection of fluff and air floating around my grey matter. The wandering words whisked out of that cloud just in time to explain: I don’t feel the way I used to. But of course I still love you! I made sure to inject that sedative, straight to your chest, just in case my mouth was getting ahead of my mind and I needed a reference point to come back to. The ring settled back onto the base of my finger. You didn’t sleep that night.

The indent around my finger stayed there, as I drank away our telephone fight. The grey ring clashed with the clear bottle, I thought; probably better just to take it off while I handle this. I pulled it off, put it on, pulled it off, and set it down on the kitchen counter. I remembered you on that counter the night our roommates were gone and we’d grown bored of the bedroom. The bottle didn’t fit on my hand nearly as snug as my monochromatic associate, and besides, there was simply too much to drink for one man and a thirsty ring. A voice, attached to a body, had floated in the kitchen after me. She offered to help, and a glass of liquid jumped eagerly to her lips. As we drank, we contemplated where the evening would end. The ring, my ring, rolled one large, pewter eye at my slurred persuasion. We left the room before it could change my mind.

I played a game of horseshoe with ten bony, knuckled stakes while you screamed. I won almost every time, imagine that. Sometimes, the muted choking sounds fighting through the now-black collection of fluff and air would distract me, and I’d ease the sandbags on my eyelids to cautiously glance at you. The grey horseshoe would take advantage of this break from concentration and fail to make its way successfully onto a stake, plummeting to the carpet. Then I would have to wait for you to breathe long enough to retrieve my game piece. It’s fine, see? Just a ring, no damage at all, no need to worry. You wondered how I could do this to you. Isn’t it strange this ring only fits on this finger? I wondered who wore it before me. Your throat gave out, but your tear ducts had more to say. You didn’t eat that week.