I take one last look in the mirror, “I hate you.”

“Speak up or come out here, honey,” she chides sweetly.

With reluctant steps I enter our bedroom and approach where she is seated in the bedside chair, struggling with an unruly pair of nylons, “I’m going to show you something, and I don’t want you to go all girly, okay.”

The box is behind my back, so she asks, “What are you going to show me.”

I start to take a knee but think better of it, though I feel compelled to explain, “Look, I was going to kneel just for convenience, but I think that would only muddy the issue.” Too late. I’ve let the box come into view.

Her eyes light up, and a hand goes to her delicate mouth. Yep, she’s gone all girly. I can almost hear her heart pounding. Reason escapes me, as it often does in her presence. I open the box and show her.

All the girly leaves her in an instant. Her rosey cheeks go pale. Her magnificent eyes turn dull. My heart aches.

“Babe,” she asks, “why is there a finger in that box?”