I should have known better than to try explaining to her the difference between what she thought she had seen and what I had actually been doing. Unfortunately, I deluded myself into thinking otherwise when I went to her house this afternoon. As soon as she'd seen me, objects had started flying: a nail file, a magnet, erasers, bookmarks, pencil lead, the entire contents of the tin she kept by the door for things left by her guests. I tried to talk to her as I dodged flying junk, then it was empty, so she threw the tin, and slammed shut the door.

Which, of course, is why I'm now here, walking not a mile from her house in the park where we'd first met. A bump was slowly forming on my forehead, but I was lost in my thoughts as I fingered the small box in my pocket. The small velvet box she may never let me close enough to show her. The one that contains the ring her best friend had been helping me to pick out, that day she'd seen the two of us together.