crushed commitment

My husband pawned his wedding ring for $275 two months after I gave it to him. He drank the money and fell asleep on Avenue B. When he came home the next day, he lied about everything. He lied about where the ring was. He lied about the drinking.

He lied. Again.

I tenderly removed my ring and tucked it in the silk-lined box I saved after purchasing the set I couldn’t afford. The money he took from a grey-eyed woman with sweaty hands was nowhere near what I paid. What I’m still paying back.

A week after it occurs, I realize I can no longer keep a piece of jewelry that bears no meaning. My therapist says my fear of rejection is what caused it all.

“You are too forgiving,” she said brushing wispy bangs from her face. “You’re the most forgiving person I know.”

I came to New York City to fade into the streets after I lost my soul mate in Australia because of a fatal accident. People always tell you that accidents happen. They leave out the statistics of people who actual survive them.

My Soul Mate is an unfortunate statistic. I am starting to understand that I am too. That he and I always have been. It’s part of who we are.

My husband fits in. He goes to bars and people notice him walk in. He fills himself with serum that makes him engaging, it makes him alive.

Sometimes it makes him violent. Everyone has problems I guess.

I tiptoe out of the house, it’s early and he’s sleeping. He doesn’t work. He looks though. I bet he finds something soon.

I have the receipt for the $2200 I charged three months back. It’s turned into over $3500 on my credit card by now. I’ve never pawned anything in my life, but I am going to try.

I am in the doorway of a 45th Street jeweler. An Israeli boy with a “We buy gold” flyer won me over on Fifth Avenue. I can do this, I’m prepared.

I am offered $500. Papers are put in front of me and ID requested. There is talk about platinum and gold and weight. I act like my phone is vibrating in my pocket.

“I just have to take this outside.”

A green garbage can on the corner winks at me. Somehow the small box in my bag slapping the bottom of the bin with a loud clang makes me feel safer. Safer than money from a pawned symbol of what might have been forever makes me feel.

I remember again how nothing is forever. I spend the rest of the morning contemplating accidents.

a short story from the collection containing love appreciation