My green-eyed first wife – fiery temper and hair to match – slid the wedding ring on my finger. Twisting on my knuckle, it never left my hand. I grokked with certainty borne from intuition that BAD THINGS would happen should that tri-colored gold band leave my touch. Years, a decade and change, passed and one day I took it off and set it on the bed beside me. For two seconds I was fine, but then I couldn’t breathe. In a panic, I put the ring back on. But… I put it on backwards. BAD THINGS happened. Weeks later, soul-weary and tired of constant fighting I remembered my misstep and I flipped the ring on my finger. Things got better. But now I knew. Like peeling blistered skin after a sunburn, I couldn’t stop. Flip. Fight. Flip. Make up. Flip. Scream. Flip. Sweet nothings. Flip. Slammed doors. Flip. Makeup sex. I forgot which direction was safe and which was dangerous. That marriage – that ring – is gone now. I’m married to a blonde angel now with a temper as cool as her hair; who loves me more than I deserve and knows me better than I’d like. From day one, I refused to let the flip of the ring mar my new marriage. I flipped it on my wedding night. I flipped it the next day on my honeymoon. I flip that ring every day, daring it to curse me again. Another decade has passed, I flip my new ring daily. And cringe a little each time.
