ELLEN PARKER lives in Seattle, Washington. She writes fiction. She works in p.r. She doesn't wear jewelry.

                                                             ring finger


Trent, nineteen and fine, at the corner, shit, where she said, fronta Starbucks, pissy rain. Checks his watch, past lunch. Where the fuck? Suits pass, dorks, grinnin.

Comes lil Shyla (right, uh huh, like Shyla shy; her mama wish) crossin First. Shit. She unhappy. He yells, "You ain got it?"

Steps close. "Course I ain got it. Ring stuck, man. She bloated." Puffs her cheeks. "Should see her. Naked. Smellin."

"People strip her?"

Buggy. "Fuck yeah! Nice suit."

"Panties an all?"

Blows air. "Shit was nice, boyfrien." Rubbin her ring finger. "Tried soap. Then Slappy use, whaddya call, pliers. I said quit. Gettin all it nicked."

"Leave it be then. Shit." His eyes roll. "She doin there? At Slappy's."

"Slappy deal all them Microsoft smackheads. Fuck, she on her way home, need a jolt." Crosses her eyes, hangs her tongue. Laughs. "Slappy upset. Lost a customer."

"Shit, ring be big for you anyways, Shyla. You jus a peanut."

Shyla squints. "Trent." Says it like a shot. "This a peanut. What I got." Points to her middle. "We." Pokes him. "We got."

Flinches. "I know. Les go then. Courthouse this way."

"No." Standin there.

"No? Got me. Else you need?" Lips in her ear, whispers: "Girl, this our weddin day."

Presses close. Whispers: "Your blade." Puts her fingers there, jeans pocket, squeezin. "Always playin with it, keepin it sharp. Come on. You good."

Dawns on him. "Shit." Frowns. "Fuck. No."

Eyes go hard. "I want a weddin ring. Trent. I'm tellin you. Help me." Pullin on her ring finger. "Shyla."

She turns to First. Looks back. Fierce. "You help me." Starts across.

Trent blinks hard, thinkin.

Sighs.

Follows.

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© 2002 Ellen Parker