A fictionalized observational column.
At the blackjack table, I found myself talking to a woman wearing an impressive arrangement of rings on her left hand. I quietly placed her in the married category and continued the conversation.
Then I asked about her husband.
“I’m not married,” she said. “I just like the rings.”
This was a straightforward answer. My reaction was less straightforward. For several seconds, I felt that an important public information system had failed me.
I had apparently appointed jewelry the official registrar of other people’s availability. It had accepted the position without knowing.
She explained that she liked how the rings looked. She did not deliver a speech about modern relationships, announce a social trend, or apologize for complicating my assumptions. She had come to play cards.
I briefly imagined a world in which everyone wore a small badge listing their relationship status, intentions, and preferred time to be approached. Then I remembered that dating profiles already attempted this and had not eliminated awkward conversations.
We went back to blackjack. The dealer required a decision from me, which was inconvenient because I had spent the last minute forming a theory about accessories instead of watching the cards.
The lesson, if this small incident needs one, is that a clue is not a complete biography. You can ask an ordinary question and accept the ordinary answer.
Her rings remained lovely. My hand remained poor. Only one of these things was the casino’s business.
