A/N: I have never written so many stories in one week. This is getting insane! When I published "Time After Time", I got two separate people asking for more Joan/Arthur fics. I hadn't really planned on giving them another so soon, but I sat down to write a summer assignment and this came out instead of the analysis. I don't know if it directly fits under a Joan/Arthur classification, but it doesn't have Annie or Auggie, so it should work. I am sorry it is so short. For some reason, I haven't been able to write anything longer involving the two of them. I will continue to try, though.
Gold Band
I twirl the gold circle around my finger in the darkness, counting each gentle tick of his wristwatch. I am up to a hundred and thirty-seven ticks. Thirty-seven seconds. Thirty-seven times.
The moonlight illuminates my hand and forces my eyes to the circle of gold. I spin it again.
Thirty-seven times I've worn a band on this finger. Thirty-seven times I've worn the band to show the world that I am not alone.
The number was smaller once, but as I grew older and the stress of my job began to show, the cruel men above me thought it more plausible that I be married. No one ever said it, but I knew they believed that I was getting to old to be single.
The first time the desks handed me the manila envelope with a circle of gold, I was young and we were newlyweds. I played up the footsies and latched on to my partner. I kept flashing my band, convincing myself that it was only a natural action for a newlywed.
I spin the gold again. A hundred and fifty-one.
Fifty-one. Minus five and you've got the age when good spies are either promoted or assigned a desk and a pile of files. By that age, even I couldn't hide behind the gold.
Thirty-seven times I've worn a band. Sixteen times I've been happy. Twelve times I've been lonely. Nine times I've been ashamed. You'd think I'd be used to marriage.
I've been married to the drunkard, the handyman, the gambler, the dancer, the flirt, the doter, and yes, even the woman. I've played the lover, the hater, the disenchanted, the enchanted. You'd think I'd be able to play the wife.
The gold flashes in the moonlight as I spin it again. A hundred and seventy-seven.
Seventy-seven. The average life expectancy of a human being. The life I promised to spend in sickness and in health with the man beside me with a thundering wristwatch.
He slipped this band of gold around this finger. For the first time in my life, someone else had strung my finger through the circle, but it was just another band. Not a ring, a band. Just another symbol to the world.
It was supposed to be easy. How many women have worn a band as many times as I? How many have played as many versions of the same part? No one.
So why am I spinning my symbol in the middle of the night, wishing my husband's watch would just be quiet?
One hundred and ninety-nine.
A/N: I haven't been able to decide whether she's really happy or not. What do you think?