Vignette 7
"He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed like a flower and the incarnation was complete." -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Scarlett said nothing as he slipped the ring off her finger. Skin grazed the ringless skin, hot and heavy, as he keenly observed the very thing that cornered them into this elaborate escape. It was a meager, simple ring yet it was heavy from all the sorrows of an unhappy marriage. Like his mother's. Like his brother's. A grand sacrament down the drain with the rest of the grievances of life. He wished to chuck the thing in the river, to drown it. Then, for a moment he could forget there ever was a Mrs. Kennedy. A monster of his own creation.
"This doesn't suit you, my dear."
She took her eyes off the river to glance at him. "Frank is quite frugal. He didn't think an extravagant ring was necessary."
"Do you like it?"
"You know I don't. Even Suellen has a better ring than I do."
Her slim finger twitched as if aching for more lush, luxurious things. Quickly, he tossed the offending item aside despite her protest and reached into his pocket. The sight of expensive velvet silenced her as she grazed the box with a finger. Soft and smooth like skin.
"Open it."
Suddenly she was Pandora opening the box, but without the danger nor the suffering (he foolishly thought). But the moment she laid eyes on the emerald ring, carved, and chosen for her, gilded and intricately molded—she became his. A little part of her, faint yet growing, unknowingly went with him that day.
In his pocket, wrapped in velvet.
"Now, why does a bachelor have a ring?"
He laughed a bluffing man's laugh. "I'm getting old, my dear. Don't you think it's time I settle down?"
She scowled, not able to imagine it. Rhett with a beautiful wife, fathering beautiful children, living in a beautiful house. Where would that fit her?
"Oh, old my foot. Why would you want to get married? You were right about one thing and it's that marriage is no fun."
"Come now, Scarlett, humor me a little. Did old Frank go down on one knee?"
"I don't know! Probably!"
How could she remember when she barely recalled what time of day it was? Small insignificant details like that were masked over by the overarching terror—her second marriage. An imperceptible means to an end.
"Who is that ring for anyway?"
"It can be yours, for now. Shall I demonstrate?"
Before she could question him, he swooped down on one knee, a gallant gesture in which his mockery robbed any trace of genuineness.
"It cannot have escaped your notice that for some time past the friendship I felt for you has ripened into a deeper feeling. A feeling more beautiful, more pure, more sacred—dare I name it? Can it be love?"
She scowled. "Get up, off your knees! No woman would ever accept such a proposal. Not even the most desperate of old maids. Now, move. It's getting late. Frank is expecting me."
He stopped grinning. The joke was over. "Of course," he said stoically, closing the box. And the moment he did, she realized how much she did not want to leave. Though the closer she came to that truth, the farther she wanted to be from him.
She leaned over to retrieve the lesser ring, a speck of silver in the slanting grass. He did not budge to accommodate her closeness, nor did she urge him to move. Perhaps her loneliness welcomed his proximity with open arms. Shoulder to shoulder, if she shifted, she may feel the muscle underneath. Some movement and his leg would press up against her skirt. Warm, hot, and heavy. Her body curved to entice. And his hand reached out.
She said nothing as he flipped her onto her back. Said nothing as he began to kiss her. Searing kisses, trailing from her lips, her neck, her collar. The passion which had laid dormant in her for so long had unraveled under his attentions, and her pliant arms made their way around his neck, pulling the warmth closer. His body crushed her own, yet she reveled in how they molded together, the feverish heat searing the entirety of her, making her go mad. Because that was all it was—madness. She grew dizzy and that only made her cling to him tighter, the world banished from her senses.
His soft lips parted her own, desperately, maddeningly, as if the inevitable briefness of the embrace lingered in every recess of his mind, spurring him to reveal everything at once, no matter the consequence. Kissing her like he cared, kissing her as if he loved her. But love was utterly divorced from her mind now. All she could think of was the delight stored in each kiss, the wanton, base need to open herself to him. His frantic need to explore every bit of skin before time snatched her away from him.
No, there was none of the gentleness and simplicity she associated with love.
So, the ring, meager and simple, laid untouched for a while longer.