Amy loved her ring. She loved looking at it on her hand and angling her wrist this way and that to see how the stone caught the light. She liked the super-awareness she had of it on her finger as she rinsed out her travel coffee-mug or squirted some pearly shampoo into her hand when she showered, alone, because showering with Jake invariable ended up with soap in someone's eyes and a degree of tardiness that was intolerable. She loved her ring even though she didn't know if Jake had made sure it wasn't a blood diamond (he had) or if it was his Bubbe Ruchel's (it wasn't) or if he'd bought it online or in the Tiffany flagship store on 5th Avenue (he'd gone to the Diamond District and he'd brought his mother along.) She loved what it meant—a circle for forever and the gem that was clear and shining and stronger than anything else in the world. She loved that she had had no idea Jake would propose and that the proposal would include the perfect ring, not something out of a Cracker-Jack box or an enormous piece of candy jewelry that lit up and flashed every neon light China could cram into a piece of plastic. She loved that it fit and that he admitted he'd checked the ring sizing with Gina.
Amy loved her ring and the engraving he told her to look for when they were in bed together, da mi basia mille, deinde centum; not the obvious Love conquers all but the impetuous, romantic lines from Catullus she'd once told him she had thrilled to when she translated it in college. She loved how he held her hand when they made love, his thumb stroking over the gold band the way he drew it over her bottom lip before he kissed her. She loved her ring and how it looked in the mixture of moonlight and streetlight, her hand on his bare back after he settled against her, panting. She whispered it in his ear but he didn't stir and she dozed off, her dreams a lace veil, a shower of ivory rose petals.