the (fabricated) story of my ring: the final chapter.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here, Part 5 here Part 6 here, Part 7 here Part 8 here.}

In life, we are meant to meet certain people. Some stay forever because they're meant to. Some teach us a few things and drift out, because they're also meant to.

Nadine and George knew perfectly well that they were the forever kind of people for one another. George proposed to Nadine on the night of her stage acting debut. His mother passed away in the fall, leaving George her prized engagement and wedding rings. As a matter of fact, it was his mother that encouraged George to make a bold gesture to his Nadine. His mother recognized a note of happiness on his face that she had not seen there before and discovered George's secret hidden deep in his private soul. George took the rings with warm thankfulness, quite aware of the love and loyalty and honor they held.

Nadine and George shared a quiet life together. One without children, but with many animals. They grew plants, George wrote stories, Nadine continued to act in small venues, and the two of them shared a life full of happiness. When the Boston weather got too cold for the two of them, they moved to a small, quiet town in Florida named Micanopy. Although modest, it was the kind of town brewing with life, if its visitors were willing to dig just beyond the surface. The pair of lovebirds grew quite fond of the sleepy little town. In an effort to root a piece of themselves there, Nadine and George gave their wedding rings to a local antique shop in the hopes that some couple would pick them up and allow their love story to live on in some small way.

A couple did pick the rings up. The rings were first discovered by a girl and her mother. Then, on a winter's day, the couple (just the two of them) walked into the store and peered into the glass case. They both became quite aware in that moment that those rings were meant to reside on the girl's finger. So, the boy came back a few weeks later and picked them up, unbeknownst to the girl. And now, one ring rests on the girl's left ring finger. The other ring will join it in March of next year. And Nadine and George (although they are supposedly fabricated) will live on in those rings, a love story not forgotten.

The end.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 8.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here, Part 5 here Part 6 here, Part 7 here.}

There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who believe in fate, and those who do not. Nadine believed in the former. She had since she was a little girl. On the morning she was meant to discover whether or not she received the part at her theater, she walked slowly to work. She made her footsteps purposeful, begging the theater to recognize just how much she wanted this part. As she walked, she happened upon a yellow piece of paper. It reminded her of the special kind of paper George had typed on. She imagined him at his dining room table, a furrowed brow and look of concentration overcoming his face.

Nadine had tried and tried to remove George from her every thought, but it was impossible. She picked the paper up and ran into the back of the theater, forgetting about those steps she had taken so purposefully. She stood in the room where the performers got ready, staring at her reflection intently. She felt nosy opening someone's private piece of paper, but she promised herself she would not judge the writer for whatever it was he or she wrote, and opened it slowly. She kept her eyes tightly shut and imagined what might be written. It seemed as though a bit of the light had gone out of her, though, for all she could conjure were grocery and to-do lists.

Upon opening her eyes, she gazed upon familiar script, a note from her beloved. In it, she found everything she had hoped for. An explanation, a way to reach him, George's sweet and concerned words strung into perfectly formulated sentences. She closed her eyes again, certain that she was creating the words from thin air, willing the dust in the room to form the words and the overhead fans to blow them onto the paper. But when she opened her eyes again, the writing was still there. George's writing. How the letter had made it just outside the theater door, she was unaware, but she didn't care one bit. She wondered how it was she had come to deserve this little bit of such good fortune. She hugged the universe in the most delicate way she knew how. She cried tears of happiness. She danced in the dimly lit room. Then, she called George.

Part 9 to follow.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 7.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here, Part 5 here. Part 6 here.}

Sometimes unfortunate events happen, and Nadine knew that. She was surprised, though, that George would leave her suddenly and without notice. It seemed so out of character, and that's because it was.

The morning before George left, he had written a note to Nadine and placed it outside her door:

Dearest Nadine,

It is with greatest regret that I leave, unable to tell you ahead of time. I'm afraid my mother is quite ill, and our family must gather together and be with her right now. I came by this morning, but you must have been out on your morning walk. I traced your imaginary footsteps and still could not find you. You must have started a new path, which is so wonderfully typical of you. My lease at the apartment was almost up anyway, so it just made more sense for me to pack up and leave, since I'm not sure when I'll return. I'll find some way to come visit you on Sunday, but call me at this number until then (508) 631-5682.

Yours always,
George

But in a busy apartment complex, full of hustle and bustle, the note made its way outside to the sidewalk below. Person after person walked and scattered the note about until it wasn't really outside the apartment complex at all, but somewhere entirely different. In the week since George's departure, Nadine had painted her apartment walls green, taken 17 walks, completely rearranged her apartment furniture twice, and auditioned for a part at the theater where she was employed.

George eagerly awaited Nadine's call, but it never came. Seeing as they had always been neighbors, George had never actually been given Nadine's telephone number. He realized now how silly that was and he wished so badly that it could somehow be delivered to him. More than that, Nadine was not listed in any of the phone books he could find. It was almost as if she had never existed. On the Sunday George planned to visit, his mother was actually doing much better than she had been since he arrived. However, unsure that her health would remain, George felt as though he should stay with his family and enjoy a day where they all felt good and happy. He reluctantly decided to stay.

Part 8 here.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 6.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here, Part 5 here.}

When Nadine and George arrived at the pastry shop, George was already fretting. It had been difficult for him to make conversation on the walk there. If only he weren't so nervous. Nadine felt as though she was already talking too much. Her mother said that was what always got her in trouble with men.

But it wasn't too much. It was just right. Over the next few months, George and Nadine would discover that they balanced each other quite well in instances just like this one. When he didn't talk enough, Nadine filled the silence. When Nadine couldn't finish her coffee, George would drink the rest. When George felt like being a hermit and staying in, Nadine insisted they go out and "join the rest of the world," as she called it. When Nadine wrote too much on her to-do list, George showed her how to slow down.

One afternoon, Nadine sat in the kitchen with Matilda and asked her how she felt about George. Unsurprisingly, Matilda did not reply, but Nadine imagined that she had. Matilda told her that he was handsome and sweet. The way his laugh lines gently made a carving in his face, the way he listened intently when Nadine talked about her dreams of performing on stage, the way he often came to her apartment unexpectedly, eager to share his newest writing with her. She felt special that George was willing to share his writing. The feeling made her heart want to burst.

One day, Nadine walked down to George's apartment and knocked on the door in hopes of catching him for a late lunch. He did not answer. The door was askew and Nadine gently pushed it open to reveal an empty apartment. She shuddered, hurt and confused. Sunlight was spilling through the open living room, the dust particles mocking Nadine's existence. She felt stupid and naive and abandoned. She sat on the hardwood floor and had a good cry. Through an open window a gentle breeze tickled her face. She walked to the window and looked out at all the people, living their lives. She wondered what they were all thinking about in that moment. She imagined an older man with gray hair and glasses was thinking about the roast beef sandwich he would have for dinner tonight. She imagined a young mom with her toddler daughter was dreaming about the bubble bath she wouldn't get the chance to take. She imagined a bookish young man was pondering the next book he would read, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Nadine, though fragile, was also strong-willed and refused to let her sadness consume her. She wiped her tears, shut the door of George's (now vacant) apartment, and smoothed her dress. Then, she did the only thing she could think to do. She walked to the corner market and bought a fourth pound of roast beef. She drew up a bath with handfuls and handfuls of bubbles. She pulled A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from her bookcase, dusted it off and set it on her nightstand for the night's reading. She would live out the simple dreams of the people she observed and that would be enough for tonight.

Part 7 to here.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 5.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here.}

"George? I'm Nadine, hi!"

Nadine stood at the door of 2B's apartment, greeted by George, who had not yet gotten dressed and blushed in embarrassment.

"I know it's early, but I have to be on my way to work and I just thought you should have this."

George looked down to see a beautiful typewriter in Nadine's arms.

"Well, you said in your letter that you had broken yours and, well, I'm not using this one. I really wish you'd take it. It deserves to be loved, you know? Used by someone who will truly appreciate it."

George blinked. He thought he must dreaming. To have such a lovely person standing in his doorway, a woman he had never met, offering him a beautiful and perfectly operating typewriter, it didn't seem real.

"Thank you," he said, feebly. "I don't feel like I should take it, though."

"Please, please take it. I'm not using it. It's sitting in my closet. A friend of mine gave it to me and she'd be so happy to know that someone was putting it to good use. It would be so much happier down here with you."

She held it out to him. He thought of the way she said the typewriter would be happy and he smiled. He thought about how perfectly perfect it was that she described the typewriter as though it was a person. It was something he would do. He looked at Nadine, wanting to memorize her face.

"How about if I just borrow it? See how things work out between the two of us."

"I think that would be just lovely," she replied. "You know, I'm on my way to the theater right now, but it would be nice to do something together, don't you think? I feel as though I've known you for much longer than this conversation right here and right now. It's like we've been lifelong friends, or something, don't you think?"

George did. He thought that with his whole heart. He couldn't believe this young woman was saying all of these things, as if she were pulling the words right out of his deepest thoughts.

"Meet me at the coffee shop on the corner. They have the best pastries and I like to have something sweet after a long day of work. Can you make it? At 6 o'clock? Well, actually, let's meet here so I can feed my cat and then we'll walk together. Does that work?"

"Sure," said George. Pull it together, he thought to himself. "I'd be delighted to get a pastry with you."

"Well, good!" Nadine shouted, as she ran down the stairs. At the very bottom of the lobby she added, "Enjoy the typewriter!"

George could not wipe the smile from his face. He walked around his apartment in a daze. Every now and then he would just stand in front of the typewriter, sure that it was giving off some kind of aura — a breath of fresh air in an otherwise bland apartment. He thought of Nadine. He thought of her radiance. Her boldness. Her ease. It was all almost too much. She didn't seem real or tangible. He thought he might burst.

Part 6 here.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 4.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here.}

A few days had passed since Nadine had placed her small, handwritten letter on the lobby mailboxes. Her attempt to be mysterious had resulted in the purchase of a pair of bright yellow shoes and a hideous blue hat. She realized almost immediately that mystery could not be purchased. She thought of her dear mother who had never tried to be anything but herself. Nadine sighed.

George had spent minutes, hours deciding what to write back to the woman in the floral skirt. The letter sat on his empty dining room table, as if it needed all the space it was given. He sat down. He stood up. He felt a little ridiculous over the nervousness he felt. He sat back down.

Dear Woman In The Floral Skirt (Nadine),

It is you, right? Your letter was not intrusive. Quite the opposite, actually. I am sorry to report, however, that I have no experience in tools or handywork or anything else like it. I, myself, was trying to repair my typewriter, which now sits broken in the corner of my living room. A shame, really.

Yours,
George (Apartment 2B)

He looked at the letter. It seemed cold, distant. But he didn't know how else to write it. And then he looked at the way he had signed it. He wondered about Yours. It seemed too intimate. Oh well, he thought. And with that, he walked down to the mailboxes and taped the letter to Apartment 3B's mailbox. Nadine, he thought, what a lovely name. Just then, he realized she was living right above him. He walked back into his apartment and shut the door. He stood in the center of his living room and looked up. Suddenly, he felt less alone as he imagined what Nadine was up to. It was a comfort he had not felt since the day before he had broken his typewriter.

Although Nadine was trying not to care, she had checked her mailbox incessantly over the last few days for any kind of sign that The Man With The Bright Red Socks had been there. On this particular trip to the mailbox, she realized he had been. She read the letter. A brilliant idea crossed her mind.

Part 5 here.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 3.

{Part 1 here, Part 2 here.}

As George walked out of his apartment, he mourned for his typewriter. So much hard work had been tapped into those keys and it felt strange and a bit depressing to let it go. George wondered if other people had attachments to inanimate objects like the attachment he felt to his typewriter. Probably not, he thought to himself. He needed to make more friends.

Nadine stood perfectly still in her apartment. She walked to the kitchen and opened her refrigerator door to get some cool air. Although she almost instantly regretted her decision to write the Man With the Bright Red Socks a letter, she wasn't one for second guessing herself, so she decided to leave it be. Matilda was perched on Nadine's small, tan couch and Nadine joined her, waiting. She realized it could be hours before the man saw the letter, and even days before he decided to reply (if he decided to reply). Nadine opened a book, and read without understanding. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

George felt ridiculous. He felt completely and utterly alone without his typewriter and no human friends. I need a cat, he thought. He turned to open the apartment's lobby door and step outside when a piece of paper caught his eye. Certainly it's not for me, he thought, but it does look like it's attached to my mailbox. He stood still and considered reading the letter. But what if it wasn't for him? He decided to read it anyway. He blushed.

After reading a couple pages without really paying attention to them, Nadine decided it was high time she go and do something productive. She fed Matilda and gave her a small bowl of milk, something she liked to do on Saturdays. She thought of her friend Emma, who was probably doing something marvelous and exciting. She then thought about how boring her life was in this moment. As she sat in her living room with her cat, thinking of a man she did not know, writing a letter to that same man, and running back up to her apartment to think about how silly she felt for writing the letter to the man she did not know, opening her refrigerator door to get fresh air, reading a book without understanding — it all felt too predictable. With that, she grabbed her purse and headed outside.

Hearing rustling in the lobby, George ducked outside to catch his breath. His heart felt as though it had dropped into his hands and he felt silly for being so nervous about a letter from the woman in the hardware store. Surely it had to be the same woman with the floral skirt and hair just so. He memorized her handwriting, the curves of the letters, the way she addressed him as The Man With the Bright Red Socks. He relished the fact that she noticed small details and he felt himself melting into a puddle, a happy one no less.

Nadine walked outside and did not notice the missing letter, or the fact that George was standing just outside their apartment entrance. She was much too consumed by being someone who was unpredictable (something she was consumed by quite often). She thought about all the ways she could not be a bore. She thought of ways to be mysterious, unattainable. Someone who struck curiosity in others. These were all things she thought of quite often, almost as though she were rehearsing for a part in a play — herself, but different.

But what Nadine did not realize was that somewhere, The Man With the Bright Red Socks, who felt a connection to a (now broken) typewriter, was intrigued by her forwardness, her desire to be up front and transparent in any given situation. What she did not realize was that with just a few of her scribbled words on a piece of paper, The Man With the Bright Red Socks felt a lift in his spirits, the chance to make a friend other than a typewriter. How unexpected, he thought.

Part 4 to follow.

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 2.

{Part 1 here.}

Nadine turned to leave, a handful of supplies in her arms, none of which looked even remotely useful (or familiar to her). As she left, she fell in perfect step behind the man with the bright red socks. The closer she got to her apartment, she worried the man with the bright red socks would think she was following him. She sat on a bench and waited. Watching the man, she noticed he stopped at her complex. Her heart swelled.

George was determined to fix his own typewriter with what little knowledge he had of tools and handywork. As he walked home, he thought about what would happen if he gutted his typewriter and then couldn't fix it. It was just then that he realized that the sweet woman with the floral skirt was in close step behind him. He wondered where she was headed and felt compelled to ask. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. Just then, she stopped at a bench.

Nadine wondered how long she should sit on that bench before making her way to her apartment. She then wondered how possible it would be to ask George for assistance with her apartment decorating. Surely he knew something about handywork if he ventured into a hardware store. Not the kind to stand on the sidelines of her own life, she resolved to write him a letter. She would leave it on the row of mailboxes in the small lobby of the apartment. Surely he would see it then.

With her new found plan, she walked into the complex and into her apartment. Sitting down to craft the letter to the man with the bright red socks, Matilda jumped onto her lap and Nadine patted her little orange head.

George sat down in front of his typewriter, gave it one last affectionate pat, and began taking it apart. He realized it was a mistake as soon as he began.

Dear Man with the Bright Red Socks,

Please forgive me if this letter is perceived as intrusive. I saw you at the hardware store today at around 2pm and wondered if you could help me with a bit of decorating. I'm concerned about the weight of one particular piece I'd like to hang and was wondering if I could get your advice. You remind me of someone I once knew.

Sincerely,
Nadine (Apartment 3B)

The letter sounded impersonal, formal even. Nadine wondered if it would come off as such. The last bit sounded out of place and silly, but she couldn't bring herself to cross it out. She sealed it in an envelope and took it downstairs to the mailboxes. She labeled the envelope: Man with the Bright Red Socks. She dashed back up to her apartment, sat, and waited.

George looked at his typewriter. Why had he assumed he could fix it on his own? He felt a bit dizzy. His dear old, trusty typewriter seemed to look back at him with sadness. George thought it might be best to get some fresh air.



{Part 3 here.}

the (fabricated) story of my ring: part 1.

Sometimes I look down at my engagement ring and imagine the woman who wore it before I did. My ring is an antique, did you know that? My mom and I found it in our favorite little town, Micanopy. When I showed it to Jeffrey, I had a feeling it would be the ring that ended up on my finger.

I like to think that the woman who wore it before me had a grand, romantic love story. Nadine was in love with George, who was 10 years her senior. They met in a hardware store, where George was immediately struck because Nadine looked more purposeful than he did. She was wearing a sweet floral skirt crouched down, examining the screwdriver heads. Little did he know she was decorating her newly rented apartment, just above his. She had rented it because the sun spilled in just perfectly at 4 pm. She always made sure to be home at that time to sit in complete and total relaxation with her sweet cat, Matilda.

Nadine was an employee at a theater, where she was always eager to audition for the parts, but could never quite work up the courage. Her boss, Gerald, was kind enough to let her leave for one half hour daily at 4 pm to enjoy the aforementioned spilling sunlight.

George was a writer. The kind of writer hopelessly indebted to his characters -- so indebted that he rarely left his apartment. Except on that fateful day, when he walked into the hardware store to ask an employee about how easy it would be to self-repair a broken typewriter. And that was when he saw Nadine, her hair pulled back just so. He stood in shock and awe -- he felt as though he was witnessing a sweet and perfect creature from one of his stories, the kind of woman that could only be true if she had been written that way.

Nadine was trying hard to look as though she knew what she was doing, although she really had no idea. George caught her eye because his hair was perfectly tousled. It reminded her of her childhood friend, Raymond, who had gone to war and never returned. She cocked her head in disbelief. Alas, it was not him, but she instantly felt comfortable without even talking to the man in the hardware store. She liked the way he was wearing a dress shirt without a tie, and the way his pants were too short and revealed bright red socks. She wanted to know this man, befriend him, walk with him in the park. What a silly thought, she said to herself. George wanted to hold this woman's hand, show her his first draft stories, and buy her a coffee on a cool, bright evening. Nonsense, he said to himself.



{Part 2 here.}