I am in my bed at my parents’ house, and I am woefully ring-less. Yesterday I took my lustrous tiny hula hoop to get sized down, and they still haven’t called me to pick it up. The whole thing was rather vague. The proprietor of the small business informed me that while the gold smith hadn’t shown up in a few days, they were confident that he’d be back that night—in which case, he would size the ring by moonlight and they would call me this morning to retrieve it. But the phrase “if he shows up,” did not rightly inspire confidence. It seems that for the rest of my life, anyone who is in possession of my ring who isn’t me will have to deal with the wrath of the betrothed.