You don’t expect the proposal. It’s a surprise like finding cash in an old bag, or food in the fridge when you thought you’d accounted for everything on the last shopping list. You don’t know what to do with it. Every other ingredient in the kitchen is part of another recipe altogether and you promised you’d have dinner with Jack, cook something for Kerry.
You play with your ring finger, the significance of which is dictated by men, by whom all decisions are made and language implied, and you pull the skin of it like it’s lost elasticity, or it’s excess weight, or it’s stretch-marked and heavy, and you think how jewellery’s akin to renovation, a superficial improvement, wearable, wearoutable, like fresh paint or the keys on your computer’s keyboard. F’s lost its shell altogether.
You wonder whether ceremony, performance, can recover scars, or just emphasise them, and Mark’s who you thought you’d end up with, and every mistake you used to carry like a badly plotted point in an episode of The Walking Dead evolves into the event it should have been, until you’re considering and reconsidering him, wondering if under the lights in expensive shops he’d be attractive like a full price shirt, his depths would shoot off in directions like diamonds, if you even might lose the receipt, purposefully, to give yourself reason to keep him.