One problem: that imaginary yet well-rehearsed conversation didn’t feature Jo wearing a ring – that ring – on her ring finger.

Rather, the imaginary conversation started with a perfectly polite question from Jo that would go something like, “How are you, Becca?  So good to see you!  You look amazing.”  And later, after more polite chatter, Jo would urge her with something like, “So, what’s happened to you since we last met?  I want to know everything.  Tell me.”

And Becca would pause before tilting her head to one side, all self-composed, of course, flutter her eyes coquettishly, then parry with something like, “What should I tell you, Jo?  Where would I start?”     And one thing would lead to another.  Then maybe.  Just maybe, in Becca’s imagination, they would start to undo the damage to their lives that train station-parting had wrought.

But now.  That ring!  That ring meant only one thing.  The imagined conversation stalled, and looped back to another possible start.  The one that had Becca slapping Jo soundly across that too-handsome face, first, then laying a “You f*&^%$#ng bitch!  How dare you ask me how I am?!!”

You’re married.  Of course!  What was I expecting?  That you’d wait?  For me?  For someone who’d admitted to not getting the whole women-being-attracted-to-other-women thing when we’d first met?  Who still hasn’t found the courage to tell her family about you?  About us?

Jo reached out and lightly touched the inside of Becca’s wrist, where a pulse-point beat wildly, as if trying to catch Becca’s attention.   Like you didn’t have it already, Jo, 100%, from the time I’d spotted you leaning against that wall, the world at your feet, scantily clad women fawning over you.

“I said, hi, Becca!  It’s me, Jo.  You do remember me, right?”

Becca glanced down at the long, strong fingers that held her by the wrist gently, eyes drawn to that point of searing contact, the touchpoint to a trove of vital memories that held such power over her mind and soul still, as it had three years ago on that rail platform.

Remember you?  Damn, Jo, I more than remember you!  I hung on to you!  In my mind, in my heart – I continued to believe, Jo. In you.  In us. Believed we’d come to our senses.  That we’d recapture that special something we’d found when we were thrown together by unexpected circumstances.  Only you and I know what happened to us three years ago.  Only you and I can bring all of that back into our lives.