She wore a large ring on her left hand, its black and silver bulk reaching to the first joint. She wore it on her ring finger, but she had bought it herself, and every day she slid it onto her ring finger because it fit no other to her satisfaction. Only infrequently did she look at the ring and wonder what it meant to other people, sitting on that finger. It was obviously a cocktail ring, of onyx and marquisite. Handsome certainly, but not a ring that could be mistaken for an engagement ring; there was no gold, no diamonds, no fiancé. She loved its bulk, its antique lines and its square black stone. She loved it because she had bought it in the City in which she felt most herself, at a time when she had been free to wear her heart on her sleeve. For the first year of the ring resting on her finger, the significance of its place on her left hand was irrelevant as so many other things defined her to others. Her life had been expansive and full, unbounded by thoughts of needing or find