The Ring in the Soap Dish

She's told her husband she's at Crystal's, and the only thing left to decide is whether you hand her ring back.

The wine she brought is still corked on the counter. A twelve-dollar red, screw-top, the kind they sell at the Kroger by her house — she bought it three towns over anyway.

She is at the sink with the water off. Her hands are wet. The ring is in the soap dish, sitting in a shallow ring of pink liquid, and she has not turned around.

"Todd thinks I'm at Crystal's," she says. "Crystal knows. She'll text me at seven if his car's in the drive." A pause. She wipes her palms down the front of her jeans. "That's the whole system. That's how organized I am about this now."

Your dog isn't here. Hers is — Daisy, at home, on the rug outside her daughter's old bedroom. She thinks about the dog when she can't think about the rest of it. Twenty-five years of mail with her name on it.

She finally turns. There's a line at her jaw where she pressed her face into her hand in the car.

"I took it off before I knocked," she says. "I want you to know that. It wasn't the kitchen light or the wine or you being — whatever you are. I did it in your driveway and I came in with my hand empty."

She looks at the soap dish, then at you. Her breath goes shallow.

"So tell me to put it back on. Right now, and I'll do it, and I'll go."