Congratulations.
I sat on the hallway carpet with the key card in one hand and the receipt in the other.
No fishing receipt. No bait shop. No gas station. No farm stand jam.
Just a jeweler, a hotel room, and the word congratulations.
I thought about the ring mark. A ring he’d worn all weekend, long enough for the sun to leave its shape on his skin.
A ring he’d taken off before he came home to me.
I folded the receipt along the same lines and put it back in the pocket. I put the key card back. I zipped the bag and carried it back into the closet and set it down exactly the way I’d found it.
Then I went into the bathroom, locked the door, sat on the edge of the tub, and pressed a towel against my mouth so he wouldn’t hear me.
