the (fabricated) story of my ring, part iv.

Quite some time ago, I posted a fictional series on my previous blog about the origin of my engagement ring. Truthfully, we found the set in an antique store in Micanopy, a small town outside of our college town. The woman who sold it to us knew very little about the set, other then when it was likely made. I have always been enamored with history, mostly because I love imagining people's lives and the goings-on during different time periods. The series is still one of my favorite things I've ever written, and for that reason I'd like to re-publish it here. It is entirely fictional and has no truth to it whatsoever, although it is fun to imagine otherwise. 

Part 1, here.
Part 2, here.
Part 3, here.

 
A few days had passed since Nadine had placed her small, handwritten letter on the lobby mailboxes. Her attempt to be mysterious had resulted in the purchase of a pair of bright yellow shoes and a hideous blue hat. She realized almost immediately that mystery could not be purchased. She thought of her dear mother who had never tried to be anything but herself. Nadine sighed.

George had spent minutes, hours deciding what to write back to the woman in the floral skirt. The letter sat on his empty dining room table, as if it needed all the space it was given. He sat down. He stood up. He felt a little ridiculous over the nervousness he felt. He sat back down.

Dear Woman In The Floral Skirt (Nadine),

It is you, right? Your letter was not intrusive. Quite the opposite, actually. I am sorry to report, however, that I have no experience in tools or handywork or anything else like it. I, myself, was trying to repair my typewriter, which now sits broken in the corner of my living room. A shame, really.

Yours,
George (Apartment 2B)

He looked at the letter. It seemed cold, distant. But he didn't know how else to write it. And then he looked at the way he had signed it. He wondered about Yours. It seemed too intimate. Oh well, he thought. And with that, he walked down to the mailboxes and taped the letter to Apartment 3B's mailbox. Nadine, he thought, what a lovely name. Just then, he realized she was living right above him. He walked back into his apartment and shut the door. He stood in the center of his living room and looked up. Suddenly, he felt less alone as he imagined what Nadine was up to. It was a comfort he had not felt since the day before he had broken his typewriter.

Although Nadine was trying not to care, she had checked her mailbox incessantly over the last few days for any kind of sign that The Man With The Bright Red Socks had been there. On this particular trip to the mailbox, she realized he had been. She read the letter. A brilliant idea crossed her mind.

the (fabricated) story of my ring, part iii.

Quite some time ago, I posted a fictional series on my previous blog about the origin of my engagement ring. Truthfully, we found the set in an antique store in Micanopy, a small town outside of our college town. The woman who sold it to us knew very little about the set, other then when it was likely made. I have always been enamored with history, mostly because I love imagining people's lives and the goings-on during different time periods. The series is still one of my favorite things I've ever written, and for that reason I'd like to re-publish it here. It is entirely fictional and has no truth to it whatsoever, although it is fun to imagine otherwise. 

Part 1, here.
Part 2, here.

As George walked out of his apartment, he mourned for his typewriter. So much hard work had been tapped into those keys and it felt strange and a bit depressing to let it go. George wondered if other people had attachments to inanimate objects like the attachment he felt to his typewriter. Probably not, he thought to himself. He needed to make more friends.

Nadine stood perfectly still in her apartment. She walked to the kitchen and opened her refrigerator door to get some cool air. Although she almost instantly regretted her decision to write the Man With the Bright Red Socks a letter, she wasn't one for second guessing herself, so she decided to leave it be. Matilda was perched on Nadine's small, tan couch and Nadine joined her, waiting. She realized it could be hours before the man saw the letter, and even days before he decided to reply (if he decided to reply). Nadine opened a book, and read without understanding. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

George felt ridiculous. He felt completely and utterly alone without his typewriter and no human friends. I need a cat, he thought. He turned to open the apartment's lobby door and step outside when a piece of paper caught his eye. Certainly it's not for me, he thought, but it does look like it's attached to my mailbox. He stood still and considered reading the letter. But what if it wasn't for him? He decided to read it anyway. He blushed.

After reading a couple pages without really paying attention to them, Nadine decided it was high time she go and do something productive. She fed Matilda and gave her a small bowl of milk, something she liked to do on Saturdays. She thought of her friend Emma, who was probably doing something marvelous and exciting. She then thought about how boring her life was in this moment. As she sat in her living room with her cat, thinking of a man she did not know, writing a letter to that same man, and running back up to her apartment to think about how silly she felt for writing the letter to the man she did not know, opening her refrigerator door to get fresh air, reading a book without understanding — it all felt too predictable. With that, she grabbed her purse and headed outside.

Hearing rustling in the lobby, George ducked outside to catch his breath. His heart felt as though it had dropped into his hands and he felt silly for being so nervous about a letter from the woman in the hardware store. Surely it had to be the same woman with the floral skirt and hair just so. He memorized her handwriting, the curves of the letters, the way she addressed him as The Man With the Bright Red Socks. He relished the fact that she noticed small details and he felt himself melting into a puddle, a happy one no less.

Nadine walked outside and did not notice the missing letter, or the fact that George was standing just outside their apartment entrance. She was much too consumed by being someone who was unpredictable (something she was consumed by quite often). She thought about all the ways she could not be a bore. She thought of ways to be mysterious, unattainable. Someone who struck curiosity in others. These were all things she thought of quite often, almost as though she were rehearsing for a part in a play — herself, but different.

But what Nadine did not realize was that somewhere, The Man With the Bright Red Socks, who felt a connection to a (now broken) typewriter, was intrigued by her forwardness, her desire to be up front and transparent in any given situation. What she did not realize was that with just a few of her scribbled words on a piece of paper, The Man With the Bright Red Socks felt a lift in his spirits, the chance to make a friend other than a typewriter. How unexpected, he thought.

the (fabricated) story of my ring, part ii.

Quite some time ago, I posted a fictional series on my previous blog about the origin of my engagement ring. Truthfully, we found the set in an antique store in Micanopy, a small town outside of our college town. The woman who sold it to us knew very little about the set, other then when it was likely made. I have always been enamored with history, mostly because I love imagining people's lives and the goings-on during different time periods. The series is still one of my favorite things I've ever written, and for that reason I'd like to re-publish it here. It is entirely fictional and has no truth to it whatsoever, although it is fun to imagine otherwise. 

Part I, here. 


Nadine turned to leave, a handful of supplies in her arms, none of which looked even remotely useful (or familiar to her). As she left, she fell in perfect step behind the man with the bright red socks. The closer she got to her apartment, she worried the man with the bright red socks would think she was following him. She sat on a bench and waited. Watching the man, she noticed he stopped at her complex. Her heart swelled.

George was determined to fix his own typewriter with what little knowledge he had of tools and handy work. As he walked home, he thought about what would happen if he gutted his typewriter and then couldn't fix it. It was just then that he realized that the sweet woman with the floral skirt was in close step behind him. He wondered where she was headed and felt compelled to ask. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. Just then, she stopped at a bench.

Nadine wondered how long she should sit on that bench before making her way to her apartment. She then wondered how possible it would be to ask George for assistance with her apartment decorating. Surely he knew something about handy work if he ventured into a hardware store. Not the kind to stand on the sidelines of her own life, she resolved to write him a letter. She would leave it on the row of mailboxes in the small lobby of the apartment. Surely he would see it then.

With her newly crafted plan, she walked into the complex and into her apartment. Sitting down to craft the letter to the man with the bright red socks, Matilda jumped onto her lap and Nadine patted her little orange head.

George sat down in front of his typewriter, gave it one last affectionate pat, and began taking it apart. He realized it was a mistake as soon as he began.

Dear Man with the Bright Red Socks,

Please forgive me if this letter is perceived as intrusive. I saw you at the hardware store today at around 2pm and wondered if you could help me with a bit of decorating. I'm concerned about the weight of one particular piece I'd like to hang and was wondering if I could get your advice. You remind me of someone I once knew.

Sincerely,
Nadine (Apartment 3B)The letter sounded impersonal, formal even. Nadine wondered if it would come off as such. The last bit sounded out of place and silly, but she couldn't bring herself to cross it out. She sealed it in an envelope and took it downstairs to the mailboxes. She labeled the envelope: Man with the Bright Red Socks. She dashed back up to her apartment, sat, and waited.

George looked at his typewriter. Why had he assumed he could fix it on his own? He felt a bit dizzy. His dear old, trusty typewriter seemed to look back at him with sadness. George thought it might be best to get some fresh air.

the (fabricated) story of my ring, part I.

Quite some time ago, I posted a fictional series on my previous blog about the origin of my engagement ring. Truthfully, we found the set in an antique store in Micanopy, a small town outside of our college town. The woman who sold it to us knew very little about the set, other then when it was likely made. I have always been enamored with history, mostly because I love imagining people's lives and the goings-on during different time periods. The series is still one of my favorite things I've ever written, and for that reason I'd like to re-publish it here. It is entirely fictional and has no truth to it whatsoever, although it is fun to imagine otherwise. 


Sometimes I look down at my engagement ring and imagine the woman who wore it before I did. My ring is an antique, did you know that? My mom and I found it in our favorite little town, Micanopy. When I showed it to Jeffrey, I had a feeling it would be the ring that ended up on my finger.

I like to think that the woman who wore it before me had a grand, romantic love story. Nadine was in love with George, who was 10 years her senior. They met in a hardware store, where George was immediately struck because Nadine looked more purposeful than he did. She was wearing a sweet floral skirt crouched down, examining the screwdriver heads. Little did he know she was decorating her newly rented apartment, just above his. She had rented it because the sun spilled in just perfectly at 4 pm. She always made sure to be home at that time to sit in complete and total relaxation with her sweet cat, Matilda.

Nadine was an employee at a theater, where she was always eager to audition for the parts, but could never quite work up the courage. Her boss, Gerald, was kind enough to let her leave for one half hour daily at 4 pm to enjoy the aforementioned spilling sunlight.

George was a writer. The kind of writer hopelessly indebted to his characters -- so indebted that he rarely left his apartment. Except on that fateful day, when he walked into the hardware store to ask an employee about how easy it would be to self-repair a broken typewriter. And that was when he saw Nadine, her hair pulled back just so. He stood in shock and awe -- he felt as though he was witnessing a sweet and perfect creature from one of his stories, the kind of woman that could only be true if she had been written that way.

Nadine was trying hard to look as though she knew what she was doing, although she really had no idea. George caught her eye because his hair was perfectly tousled. It reminded her of her childhood friend, Raymond, who had gone to war and never returned. She cocked her head in disbelief. Alas, it was not him, but she instantly felt comfortable without even talking to the man in the hardware store. She liked the way he was wearing a dress shirt without a tie, and the way his pants were too short and revealed bright red socks. She wanted to know this man, befriend him, walk with him in the park. What a silly thought, she said to herself. George wanted to hold this woman's hand, show her his first draft stories, and buy her a coffee on a cool, bright evening. Nonsense, he said to himself.