She was always wearing rings, bracelets, bangles, little bits of leather or woven fabric around her wrist. Colorful stones, Gunmetal. And gold polish on her nails. Like candy. Maybe she wore all of it to cover up those hands. She had these weird, rough hands.
These are the kinds of things I noticed when she wasn't naked.
When we dried ourselves in the sultry august sunshine, sweat and lake water seeping into the splintering wood of the dock with our bodies warming and our pulses hammering recklessly. Curiosity and anticipation pumping adrenalin through youthful veins. She would laugh about reality tv or hum a couple of bars of a processed commercial rap song. And I would smile, waiting for her to sing again. Her voice was low, strong, syrupy-sweet. It resonated deep within me, vibrating through my body like a cathedral organ. I twisted her mermaid hair between my sun-drenched fingers and thought about how she was like a bunny rabbit. Soft and erratic, impulsive and endearing, beautiful but impossible to trap. My eyes followed my hands, tracing the delicate curves of her golden shoulder blades and admiring her breasts. Like American honey.
The one ring I remember was turquoise and set in silver, the size of a ripe cherry. She lost it in the middle of the baseball field one whisky-soaked night, claiming she had dropped it into a ditch. She waved that bedazzled, crocodile hand of hers and insisted that she didn't like that ring anyway. I could tell she was upset, because every one of those rings had a story. Girls like that don't just buy things.
The next day I combed the field, searching for a glint of silver, hoping in vain to see that weakening ocean smile when I presented her with her lost treasure. But I never found it. Naturally. What are the odds, finding a tiny ring like that in a place so vast. I wonder if its still there, a fleck of innocent beauty concealed in a pile of weeds. I wonder if she still remembers it. I wonder if she thinks its my fault she lost it, because I was with her that night and I kind of knocked it off. Did I?
The last time I saw her there was a new ring on her finger, this one a deeper blue that matched her eyes. And scarlet nail polish. Her face was different. Older. Less soft. Striking and sexy, but less like a bunny and more like a panther. This ring was prettier, but I liked the old one better.