Wedding band

I never look to see if someone is wearing a wedding band.  Why would I care?  Never… Except when I see someone sleeping in public.  I can’t help it.  People who fall asleep in public are a fascination, almost a hobby but not quite that cynical.

I’m not saying I always notice each and every person I encounter who happens to have fallen asleep in public, but if I do notice them, I in.

The first thing I look for, and I’m not quite sure why, is a wedding band.  Are they married?  Or do they, at least, think they are married? 

Today, at the local tea shop where we often come to do work, there was a flanneled man with long white grey hair and a collar-length white beard  - a cast boot on his right, broken foot -who happened to fall asleep while lounging at the Teapot.  His legs were stretched out, his posture relaxed, his arms bent at awkward angles.  I craned my neck, up out of my laptop and book, stretching to see his hidden, left hand, no more than five feet away. 

Although he had been asleep for a while, my stare must have shaken him awake.  His eyes popped open, staring straight at me.  I offered an embarrassed smile, as that was all I could offer, being so blatantly caught, and my eyes returned to my laptop as he gathered up his plastic bags, murmuring a grumble to himself.  He got up off the couch he had made his bed, checked his balance and the weight he could out on his injured foot, and his right side profile walked unevenly out of the front door. 

I never got to see if he was wearing a wedding band or not, but I like to imagine that he left to return home where his wife had made him stew - a nice, thick, warm meal for the unexpected chill of this late spring day.  He would remove his layer of flannel and sit with her, sharing the events of their days.  She went to the grocery store.  He caught an odd girl staring at him for no reason while he sat, bothering no one, at his favorite teashop.

Day 19: Pobject's wedding band

The ring, a squarish band of white gold with "I love you, soulemaughta" inscribed on the inner edge, came by mail months later.

Neither of us stand on ceremony, so the whole affair fit us well. It took place in the back room of a restaurant in Hillsboro Village, and the act itself was over in a minute or less. My mother-in-law was the witness, and after making sure we were serious about the deal, the judge signed off on it.

"Well, you're married."

"Did we miss it?" my father asked. He and my brother had been at the far end of the room getting their beers.

Our families (my parents and Maggie's, and my brother) were there already, and the other guests drifted in one by one and two by two. Most were fellow grad students, budding mathematicians and scholars of religion. A few who'd RSVPed couldn't make it in the end. We were disappointed to lose SarahAnn. No tears for Selena, though: she'd invited herself to the wedding a few weeks before and then had decided not to come after all.

The dinner was delicious (one of the reasons we'd selected that location). Maggie and I took time to circulate between courses, admiring Amy H.'s makeshift wedding band and comforting Jac, on whose shirt a waiter had spilled a glass of water.

It came time for the toasts. It took me, then an adamant teetotaler, several minutes to convince Kim that I would not indeed make an exception for a taste of champagne. Soon after that we bucked tradition again, refusing to rub each others' noses in the cheesecake.

Our insistence that we had the room for another two hours (and that there was plenty left to drink) was the cue, apparently, for everyone to go. Roger was the last to leave: he lingered for some time talking to my mother about the D.C. superheroes' universe.

Soon after Roger had gone, we took our leave. A man in the bar across the street leaned out the window. "Did you two just get married?" We said yes. "Come on over, I'll buy you a round!" We politely declined, and headed home.

Before long, we were asleep.

Day 9: Lobject’s wedding band

The small, black box sleeps

on the dresser where other

black boxes have before.

When she leaves for work,

he keeps his eyes shut for

thirty seconds more, until

the lights shadow the wall

and he knows she’s gone.

He uses hands to feel the

corners, smooth top, lift

the lid. The routine is just

to break in the wedding

band, only because he

rarely wears jewelry, and

cold titanium is calm water

so light he floats into their

future: a baby grabbing his

finger, eyes closed, finding

safety in warm, uneven skin

then the ring’s coolness,

and a sleeping baby smiling.