Returning to the Scene of the Crime

Through some process of mind reading, another talent Christa claims to possess, she decided she needed to go to Tiffany that following weekend to look for a, I’ll say, lesser Christmas gift for someone. Me man, buy rock. You woman, buy trinket.

I am often surprised by how frequently Christa and I seem to have the same thoughts or say the same thing at the same time. Are we slowly training one another to do each other’s bidding? Is there some mental transference in the middle of the night while forking? Don’t give me that look. I know we are not the only ones.

Forking is spooning while facing one another. It is not the snuggly fold-into-one-another comfort of spooning. It is the messy tangle of arms and legs that occurs when seeking the comfort of contact but needing to maintain some core body distance. It is our compromise when she needs body heat and I’m already too hot.

“Of course I’ll come with. I’ve never been to Tiffany,” I said.

Bond was back and better than ever. Then came fear. The ring was due back from fitting by this time. I hadn’t called to confirm. I thought to myself, “Let them sweat it out a while.” Sweat what, really? By holding out a couple days, could I break the diamond cartel? “Doesn’t matter,” I told myself. “I’m cool in my head.”

What if my ring consultant sees me and comes up to say, “Hi, Mr. Lloyd. Your ring is back and ready for you.”

Do I go with the Jedi mind trick? “I’m not the Mr. Lloyd you seek. Let me pass.”

Do I try to stay out of Christa’s field of vision while silently signaling frantically? Do I take a knee in Tiffany and ask on the spot? Surprise! I know this is what you’ve been dreaming about, a proposal in a Christmas-crowded jewelry showroom due to logistical error. The below-the-belt contraction came back. I tried not to speak, so not to squeak my way into undue suspicion. I always felt she had to know something was up.

I returned at a later date to pick up The Ring. The pick-up counter was back in the corner, just in front of the bathrooms. A clear statement: “If you’ve already paid, you are of no more use to us, so please don’t clutter the showroom.”

“I will stand for this only in the name of love,” I stated loud enough for no one to hear.

I spoke to the lab coat at the service desk. She returned with a small blue box. It was opened, and I was congratulated. For what? Having no comprehension of the true value of diamonds, which affords Tiffany the luxury of starching and pressing your lab coat each night, Professor?

I examined and approved The Ring, then exited the store. I have never held on to a small blue bag so tightly. My pulse was racing, chiefly due to the excitement of the impending engagement, but also because, for the first time in my life, I felt like a target for thuggery. “Lord, don’t let my first mugging be today,” I prayed. I’m certain that speed-walking, fully-clothed with a Tiffany bag, didn’t scream “easy target.”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival