Except that ring never happened, or at least, not yet. Certainly, the court-house wedding took place, complete with red and black striped stockings and wedding-cake-topper fascinator, but the ring on my hand on that occasion happened to be a platinum-set, 3-carat flawed diamond given to me by my father-in-law—not necessarily a family heirloom, but something he once saw and considered nice. The gesture was lovely and so was the ring. It is quietly resonant with sleek and settled quirk, a clouded and silvery mirth layered under the immaculate faceting. It also happened to fit my finger, such beautiful kismet. I still plan on asking Lisa to give me my wonderfully fake diamond ring, and I may use it as a secondary wedding ring, since I have six ring fingers, not just one. Marriage is, after all, something to be indulged and comprehensively celebrated, whether in memory or in metal.
