Left hand. Insignificant third finger, until that old rock song comes on the radio. The one that was playing the first time he took my hand in his.
Irrelevant flesh, until it’s bare. I throw the cold metal into the quarry outside of town. Such a tiny thing, but I think I hear a splash as I turn away.
Inside the car, the song still plays. I shut it off.
Left hand, inconsequential third finger. I rub the callus on my palm that the slender gold circle had created. Without the band, the blemish bothers me.
But it will fade.
Lily Thomas has been writing since she was little (but then, what writer doesn’t say that?). She has lived in Northeastern Pennsylvania her whole life… except for a brief stint in Central Pennsylvania.