The Girl With The Golden Ring

Sunset. The evening burned with shades of autumn skies, purple and orange, rose and red. Blue blackness began creeping in from the hillside behind a shimmering pick up truck, accompanied by the trickling of an overrun creek bed some thirty paces south. When he bought this land almost ten years ago, he was only looking for something to give him credit. Since then, it had made him more of a man. So much of his life was about fighting destruction; he needed a place where he could return something back to nature. To rebuild. He had an older sister who poured her husband's money into the pocketbooks of shrinks and specialists. This land was his therapy.

He was rugged in a manner men nowadays weren't accustomed to. That's what the girl with the golden ring loved about him. To her, he was macho and unforgiving in his dusty, worn blue jeans and a relaxed long sleeve shirt. He even wore one of those green aviator jackets with the orange lining. God, she loved him in that. He was what women loved about a man in uniform. She knew it the first time she saw him hosing down Engine 18 outside the local station house. Her uncle was a firefighter back in the day. He didn't look like this one, though. This one was like something out of an old western, redressed in firefighter blues and given broad shoulders with tattooed arms. How could someone so masculine be so beautiful?

Though she never slept as well as she did when he was beside her, the girl with the golden ring always knew that wherever he was, he was protecting her. That's what got her through stormy nights and lazy days. Neighborhood children ran after him, waving and wishing they could be him some day. Some days he would hoist a couple of them onto his back and advise them to be careful when they crossed the street on their way home. He didn't belong in this day and age. He was too much of an iconic American hero. More than once he risked his own safety to save the life of a friend and stranger.

He rarely spoke. At times, hours would pass without so much as a solitary word. He communicated with his eyes, his hands and his smile. He didn't show it very often, either, but, when he did she would melt. She loved the way he would sit quietly while his best friend bragged on his deeds. She loved the way he would change the subject and give her a wink, as if to soothe her love struck heart. Though he generally only said it when her body was against his and the house was quiet, he loved the girl with the golden ring.

He loved her delicate laugh, one that delighted anyone who could hear it. He loved her big blue eyes and soft blond hair. He loved her fingernails and the base of her neck. He loved the way she curled up on the couch and waited for him to come home. He loved to sit on the bathroom floor and lean against the claw foot tub while she sang and bathed. He loved to watch her dry off and dress; things a hero never admitted to. He loved every detail about her. If she would only ask, he would give up the axe and the hose, the air tank and the helmet. Never again would he miss the kissing flames or the taste of stale smoke. He would leave it all behind for the girl with the golden ring.

She would go to extremes for him, too, without questioning the reasons why. She would forgo all that she had worked for to give him a better house to come home to. She would slave to provide for him. She would give him a son with blue eyes. All he needed to do was say the words. All he needed to do was simply ask. Then the girl with the golden ring would know her place in the land of silent heroes and broken hearts.

Staring past swirling clouds, blinking stars and a smiling moon, she smiles to anyone watching down from above and gives thanks for the life and the love she has found. Snuggling closer beside him and feeling his arm curl around her, the girl with the golden ring nuzzled her head against the boy with the golden ring.