Also, I feel compelled to add this note in here. Whenever I write about killing zombies, or werewolves in space, nobody asks if the stories are autobiographical. Write a story about something more mundane, however, and everyone assumes that it’s creative nonfiction. (This old story of mine is notorious for getting comments like that – enough that I’ve put a disclaimer on it as well.) So yeah, it’s a story, folks. Hope you enjoy it, and we’ll see you in a few days for the other one this week.
Two rings lay on the nightstand. Hers is a frilly feminine one her husband chose. His is a thick, simple, plain band. He told his wife what style of ring he’d wear.
He didn’t make a decision on his own after that. Not until they met.
She kisses the rough stubble on his cheek, and wakes him. She carefully does not say – refuses to say – “Time to go.”
They kiss, and they dress. She will leave her ring on the nightstand, and wonders if he will.