Written by Celia Miles – (Mature theme) – 

He pressed the ring into her hand.

“A blue topaz,” he said. “Because I want the blue to always remind you of my eyes.”

You son of a bitch, she thought.

“Thank you, darling,” she said.

So began the seventeenth year of their marriage, the fourth year of his affair.

Of the affair that she knew about, Suzanne reminded herself. Others? Likely. How many? Few, she’d guess because Tony was a creature of habit, a man of routine. As she turned the ring on her finger to show its sparkle, kissed his cheek, then his ear, she was conjuring up the years of sex with Tony: once on the sofa (she a victory trophy after his Bears won and the beer took over), every other time in bed. Never backed up against the refrigerator, on the dining room table, on the back lawn next, in the shower, even, or the pool.

She’d read romance novels; she knew sex was possible in plenty of places, uncomfortable though they may be. Her bright public smile dimmed. Not that she wanted to suffer back pains afterward and not that their king-sized bed wasn’t adorable with its dozen pillows and matching hand-smocked shams. A frown formed. Did Tony find exotic positions and places for his assignations with Terri? God…Tony and Terri. It was too much. A comic strip match. Turning her shoulders into the fur he held, she extended her arm into the winter sunlight, admiring the blue topaz. Too bad his eyes weren’t emerald green.

Bitch, Tony thought. Smiled. “Darling.”

She didn’t know the blue topaz was on sale, bought in Chicago, so she couldn’t traipse downtown and check the local jeweler’s price. She’d ask before the bottle emptied where he’d purchased the ring but asking the price would be decidedly non-classy. And she was a very classy bitch. Tony touched his wine glass to hers, creating that delicate tinkle of the best crystal. Not champagne, darling, she’d murmured. “It’s so expected. Eduardo suggests Lafite Rothchild.” Only $240. “He calls it refreshing and wondrously full-bodied.”

Tony ordered with his customary assurance, smiling like a happily married man. “Full-bodied” was an adjective he reserved for Terri, one she didn’t object to, even relished. Refreshing too, a woman who paid him real attention. She occasionally burst forth with “a big-legged woman is a good kind of woman to be.” She twirled her full-bodied figure around the mobile home with a joy that Suzanne would never master or attempt. Suzanne would worry: her hair might lose its symmetry, her forehead develop a sheen of perspiration, her cheeks flush unbecomingly. Terri, on the other hand, twirled, flopped, fell heavily on his lap, her lipstick smearing his shirt above his belt. Tony smiled at his wife. The lipstick problem he solved by stashing a dozen white shirts in Terri’s flimsy dresser—not to be laundered, just tossed in the trash.

“Happy, my sweet?” Suzanne’s rhetorical question held a quizzical note.

“Happy.”

“He may be a stick in the mud,” Terri blew on wet fingernail polish, “but I like the guy.” Her voice was throaty, smoothly husky. “You should see this gorgeous ring, EllenMarie. No, he’s busy tonight, his anniversary.” Terri stretched with buxom feline grace, a small burp escaping. “It’s been almost four years now, a record,” she said. “Marriage?” She applied polish delicately, the phone propped to her ear. “Nah, it’s not in the cards. He’s happily hitched—how can I tell? He’s always yakking about Suzanne this, Suzanne that. Her clothes, her meetings, the art league and all.”

Terri blew on her nails, listened to EllenMarie’s Idaho escapades, and returned the conversation to herself. “I tell you, kiddo, how I see it. If I was married to Tony, I’d either kill him or fool around. He’s learning to lighten up around here, but then he freezes up and won’t…do anything.” She sipped her tequila. “I mean anything exciting. I mean, rings are fine–and champagne, but the man won’t live a little…well, not much.” She hummed a Lucinda Williams’ tune. “I may move out there, meet those wild survivor types and all.” She reached for the glass, knocking it to the floor. “Oops,” she giggled. “He’s a nice guy…yeah, I know where they finish. Yeah, I expect another couple months and I’ll come rolling out there, for the spring thaw.”

Terri hung up, let the carpet absorb the spilled drink. She studied her nails, one hand purple, the other teal, and the glittering diamond.

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Celia Miles, a retired community college instructor, lives and writes in Asheville, NC. She is author of several regional novels, and with Nancy Dillingham she has co-edited three anthologies of Western NC women writers. Her latest novel is The Body at Wrapp’s Mill: A Grist Mill Mystery.