He shrugged.
“Sure. The sunlight probably couldn’t reach that part of my hand.”
Then he took a drink.
“By the way, Lena, this chicken is fantastic. New recipe?”
“No.”
“Really? Tastes different.”
I watched him pick up another bite.
He was trying to change the subject.
And he was doing a terrible job.
Mark hadn’t worn a wedding ring in twelve years.
There was a reason for that.
When he was working as a construction foreman, a steel beam had pinned his left hand against a concrete column.
His ring finger broke in three places.
At the hospital, doctors had to cut his wedding band off before treating the injuries.
I still remembered sitting beside him while he stared at the damaged ring in a metal tray.
“Damn it,” he’d whispered.
He wasn’t angry about his hand.
He was upset about the ring.
We had it repaired months later.
