by Sonja Griffing
I stood on the 50-yard line with two rings in my hand. One was plain and ugly. Nicked and worn. Perfectly molded. Cold to touch.
The other ornate and brilliant. Sparkling in the sun. Brand new. Burning my skin.
They both wouldn’t fit.
I weighed them in my palm and made a choice. I drew back my hand and threw. Not noticing the plain band fall; the glitter on my finger blinding me.
