Pure Slush

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The Quarry - #10 (for Don’t Kill Me ...)  >

by Jennifer Rose 

 

“I don’t think I want to be here,” he confessed.

“Well, it’s a bit late now,” she murmured, fingering the silver wedding ring snug in its place on her left hand.

He glanced sideways at her. All of a sudden she was a stranger to him. Not the woman he’d known for eight months, the woman he’d thought was his soulmate and, indeed, perfect mate in the physical sense. She wore a slight smile of satisfaction and it sent a shot of panic to his bowels: what had he plunged himself into? What was he doing here in this place with this woman? Who was she, really? Did he know her at all?

His mind flicked back to their first encounter. Actually, it had been more of an argument he now recalled. Yes, that was it. Over whether to incarnate one’s belief was to expose oneself as the same as others or different from them. They had disagreed at length in front of the others on that uni camp. Later they’d discovered they agreed on rather more things than their inauspicious beginning had foreshadowed.

“Yes,” she now went on, “Since we’re already here, I think it’s too late for regrets.”

She splayed her hand, turning it this way and that, taking a further, more critical look at the ring. Then, with a measured look at him she tugged it off and put it back on the velvet placemat.

“I think I’ve changed my mind about silver. I forgot I’m allergic to everything but gold. Let’s go. I need to rethink the whole wedding ring thing completely.”

She turned and walked out of the shop, ahead of him.

The shop assistant, a woman in her fifties, was looking at him with a diplomatically neutral expression, flawed only by the creases smiling slightly around her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, torn by relief and anxiety now: “It didn’t suit.” 

 

published 2 March 2016