by Peggy McFarland
A bead of condensation slipped down the exterior of the glass, mimicking the bead of perspiration sliding down John’s temple. A cell phone rang a few bars of “Before He Cheats.” He gulped his bone-dry, bless-it-on-the-way-by, top-shelf vodka martini, wiped his brow and placed a long, blue velvet box on the white tablecloth between them. Barry’s eyes lit up - finally, this relationship could emerge from the closet and march in public. He closed his eyes and savored the moment, rubbed his thumb along the fuzzy exterior, and finally snapped open the lid, anticipating a glittering... Barry heard the scraping of John’s chair against the wooden floor and felt a slight breeze as his partner ran to the exit. Barry opened his eyes to find a tarnished gold band, threaded through a red ribbon, pinned onto a quilt square.
Peggy McFarland once thought Blondes Have More, but now appreciates any color of the rainbow, even if she doesn't always understand. Maybe if she went to bed instead of staying up all night writing sixes, she would.