This time, he sounded distracted.
At dinner, he barely spoke.
When I asked about Tommy’s injured knee, he gave a short answer.
When I asked whether they’d visited their favorite diner, he first said yes.
Then no.
Then admitted he couldn’t remember.
And a few moments later, I noticed the mark.
That night, I lay awake beside him.
Mark fell asleep almost instantly, as he always did.
I listened to his breathing and stared at his hand resting on the blanket.
The pale stripe was still visible.
I grew up fishing with my father.
I’d spent countless Saturdays holding rods in the sun.
Sometimes I returned home with blisters.
Sometimes with strange tan lines.
But never with a perfectly even white circle around one finger.
There was only one reasonable explanation.
Mark had been wearing a ring.
The question was why.
And whose ring it was.
