By Lion Prince
I'm forty-five, she's thirty-five, and she is just beaming as I sit down on our bench.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," she replies.
"You look happy," I say.
Her eyes widen for just a moment before she starts laughing,
and she is absolutely beautiful like this.
I can't help but smile too.
She gently cups my hands in hers, and nods.
"I am," she says.
"You've met someone," I say.
"I've met someone," she replies.
She's a careful person.
I am, too.
That's how I know she believes in this.
She glances at the ring on my finger, and I can see it:
I want to tell her that this ring isn't the kind of ring she's thinking of.
I want to tell her that it isn't a promise I made with someone else,
but a promise I made to myself.
A promise to be happy,
to be content.
I want to tell her not to get her hopes up.
But most of all, I want to tell her that it'll hurt.
And that even though the hurt never quite goes away, she'll be okay.
And she just continues to beam.
It's so beautiful,
It's so beautiful, it hurts.