Fingers prune from water. Before I drain the sink–believing we can have sex within minutes–my wedding ring slips off. Underneath, the skin is smooth. After twenty years, I wonder how this bit of flesh has escaped change.

In other homes, there are never heaps of used tissue; trails of cereal; half eaten Pop Tarts jammed between couch cushions, or spouses stumbling through the door who don’t talk, or make love.

The ring hid at the bottom of the gray dishwater. If I remove the stopper, I risk the ring slipping down the pipe.

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