I think I'm really proud of this one, just by accident. And it's regulation length, ditto.
I’ve always worn rings on both my ring fingers, although when I got the second ring at eighteen, there was a moment of coy, girlish hesitation about whether I should consider the one on my left hand prime real estate, my Camelback Mountain, Inner Harbor, Nob Hill...For Husband’s Two Months’ Salary only. Until that moment, deciding which semi-precious stone to take off and consign to resizing or my jewelry box, I hadn’t considered that I had a groom slipping a band on my finger as even the remotest thought. But once I thought that, my hand looked different. “Wear them both,” my mother said. “Life’s too short.”

And there's always fiction.

Not with a statement like "the jewelry you're wearing". I mean, I am or I'm not. And I'm not and don't.

I could write about NOT wearing jewelry. That would be accurate.

Sure it could be fiction. The you doesn't have to refer to the writer. The you could be fictional. The jewelry could be fictional. It doesn't have to be real or accurate. I mean, I understand anyone choosing not take it as fictional, but there's no reason it couldn't be fiction, regardless of why you wouldn't write it.

Right -- you could (for instance, and I'm actually desperately hoping you *will*) write from the POV of Mr. T.

Nah. I'm-a kick back and enjoy everyone else's right now.

I pity the fool who doesn't write a Mr. T drabble!

....okay, that doesn't sound convincing. Not even when I hear Mr. T (in my head) saying it.

Dang.

Well, this is fiction. But not a Mr. T drabble. Sorry, Tep.

---

I'm sure you put a lot of thought into your outfit. The lacy top, the skirt short enough to show your stockings, the clearance-rack corset with frayed seams. (Don't worry; the flaws didn't show in the dim club light.) But you could have been wearing baggy jeans and a t-shirt, and I would have picked you. Not because you were especially beautiful, sorry. Because you were wearing one of those ridiculous "blood vial" necklaces. A tiny glass bottle on a chain that signaled what your fantasy was. And later, when you're cold and still and paler than even your carefully-applied makeup, the sting of the red-dyed alcohol is as familiar to me as an after-dinner mint would have been to you.

Oooh, Jilli, nice and creeeepy.

Jilli, you gave me goose bumps.

beams