I’d carried the ring in my left front pocket for six days, waiting for the perfect time to propose to Abby. I didn’t want the event to be driven by my enthusiasm alone. It needed to be the perfect time and place, naturally. Planning it seemed far too cliché and wasn’t what I’d come to envision.

Abby’s admitted hatred of surprises didn’t help matters. Over the last few days, she’d suspected something was going on, and had scratched her left arm to the point it had a rash covering it from her wrist to her elbow.

She glanced at me and grinned. “I can’t believe it’s over. No more to-do list. It’s done. Kaput.”

I looked at the half-finished tattoo. The letters B, E, L, and I were complete, and the artist was filling in the outline for the E.

“The tattoo’s half done,” I said. “So, the list is almost complete.”

She winced in pain. “It’ll be complete here in a few minutes.”

“Are you going to make another?”

“Nope. We’re just going to live life. No lists.”

“Sounds good to me.”

She decided to get the word believe tattooed on her wrist. It seemed appropriate, considering she had it inscribed on my bracelet. I’d come to look at the bracelet as more than a gift, viewing it as a symbol of power, strength, and support.

I found myself studying it, using it as a reminder that my life, albeit different, was wandering down the only path that it was destined to travel upon. I truly believed Abby was the final item on my unwritten to-do list.

In thirty minutes, the artist was done with the tattoo. “Let your arm hang at your side and look in the mirror,” he said. “See what you think.”

Abby rose from the chair, walked to the full-length mirror, and turned her wrist until the reflection revealed the delicate script.

“I love it,” she said.

He smiled. “Cool.”

She returned to the chair, sat down, and reached for her purse. “How much was it, again?”

“Tag me in an Instagram post with a picture of it, and it’s free,” he said.

She pulled out her wallet and fished through the bills. After removing two one-hundred-dollar bills, she handed them to him. “Here, take this. I’ll tag you on a post. What’s your username?”

“At Turner Made.”

“I’ll do it right now,” she said with a smile.

She took a photo with her phone, made an Instagram post, and put several hashtags on it. After posting it, she stood. “There you go.”

He wrapped her tattoo with a protective wrap, instructed her on aftercare, and gave the tattoo one last inspection. “Looks good.”

“I’m not a tattoo virgin anymore.” She opened her arms wide. “Do you hug?”

He stroked his beard nervously. “If he’s cool with it, I’m cool with it.”

“He’s cool with it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Give me a hug.”

While they hugged, his phone, which was sitting on top of a large red tool box, was buzzing like a bee. When she released him, he reached for it.

“Holy shit.” He turned his phone to face her. “Look at this.”

I looked at the phone but saw nothing but a picture of a tattoo machine.

“What?” Abby asked.

He moved the phone closer. “My followers.”

The number of followers listed on his Instagram page was changing right before our eyes. In the time that he held it in front of us, the number changed from five thousand to seven thousand, and was steadily climbing.

“You did an awesome job. Tagging you in that post was the least I could do,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get some business out of it.”

He flashed the peace sign. “Thanks, Abby.”

She returned the gesture and stepped to my side. “Do you like it?”

I gave the artist a wave and turned toward the door. “I love it.”

“Me, too.”

“That other guy was a dip-shit,” I said. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t tattoo you.”

She chuckled. “Since when is Benadryl a narcotic?”

The first tattoo studio we’d gone to asked that she fill out a questionnaire. One of the questions asked if she had taken any medication in the last twenty-four hours. She listed Benadryl, which she’d been taking for the rash on her arm, and Pepto-Bismol, which she’d been taking for her upset stomach. The artist refused to tattoo her because of her recent use of Benadryl.

I shrugged. “I think he just didn’t want to do it and used that as an excuse.”

“There’s a reason for everything,” she said. “It brought us here, and Steve was awesome.”

I didn’t agree with the everything happens for a reason remark, but I did agree that Steve did an awesome job.

“Agreed,” I said. “Want to grab something to eat?”

“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, yawning as she spoke. “I think the whole tattoo thing wore me out. Can we just go home, and eat something there? I’m scared to eat restaurant food, anyway.”

Her stomach had been a disaster for the last ten days. If she didn’t take Pepto-Bismol regularly, she was miserable. A light meal, relaxing, and getting some sleep was probably in her best interest, anyway.

“Sounds good,” I replied.

An hour later, we were laying in her bed watching television. Six months prior, I didn’t give a shit about what was on TV and hadn’t so much as turned mine on in years. Now, Abby and I had no less than half a dozen shows we enjoyed regularly. I looked forward to the time that we watched television together, as most of it was done from the comfort of her bed.

“I guess I ought to change my address,” I said. “I’m never at home.”

She nestled against me, resting her head against my chest. “You should just move in.”

“You’d get sick of me,” I replied.

She swung her hand toward me in a joking manner. I flinched, and when I did, her hand smacked me dead in the nuts.

I folded up like a cheap suit as pain shot from my groin to my stomach. I writhed in pain from side-to-side, eventually coming to a rest with my eyes fixed on hers.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I howled.

“I’m so F-ing sorry,” she huffed. “Oh my God.”

She nodded toward my crotch, which was currently being protected by my hands. “Get your dick out, please. I want to apologize to him.”

“He’s broken.”

“I want to fix him.”

With slight reluctance, I pushed my shorts past my knees, exposing my shriveled, and very sore, manhood.

She looked at my shorts and let out a sigh. “Toss ‘em on the floor.”

I grinned. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

I did as she asked and tossed my shorts beside the bed. After fluffing her pillow, she lowered herself onto her back. Then, with her eyes fixed on the television, she blindly searched for my cock until she found it.

She gripped it lightly. A slow, predictable stroke followed. In seconds, I’d recovered fully from the nut-punch, and was as hard as the diamond ring that remained in the left front pocket of my jeans.

I studied her as she stroked my rigid shaft. Her eyes were fixed on the television, squinted into a smile. A slight grin gave hint to the satisfaction she obtained from either what she was watching or what she was doing.

Abby lived her life without excuses. She didn’t need them. She was an old soul with the heart of a princess and the imagination of a budding teen. I’d always seen beauty as something that masked one’s faults.

Part of Abby’s beauty was that she didn’t conceal her faults. She handed them to me on a silver platter, giving me the freedom to inspect them thoroughly. Knowing Abby allowed me to accept her for who she truly was. I respected her for being genuine, and true to herself.

For several moments’ time, I admired her as she lay at my side, smiling. Meeting her had changed my life completely. We now had an open book ahead of us, limited by nothing more than our imaginations and the sixty years of time we were sure to spend together.

While she continued to slowly stroke me while she was focused on the television, I reached over the edge of the bed and fumbled to find my jeans. It was the perfect time for me to propose. Later, when we were asked when and where the proposal came, we wouldn’t be able to tell the truth.

We’d have to make up something, all the while knowing when and where it really happened. It would be the imperfect proposal for two imperfectly perfect people.

My jeans were six inches out of my reach. I stretched as far as I could, nearly reaching them, only to have Abby respond by yanking on my root and reminding me of my obligations.

“What the F are you doing?” she asked.

“I was--”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Relax. I want to ride my little friend and show him how much I love him.”

We embraced in a passionate kiss. Kissing Abby took my mind to a place where only we existed, and it was there that we remained until long after the kissing stopped.

When our mouths parted, she looked at me and smiled. “I’m going to climb you like a tree, ” she said in a playfully sultry voice.

I found the remark out of context. “I’m flat on my back,” I argued. “You’re not going to climb--”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll ride you like a pony.”

“Horse,” I said. “I’m not a pony, I’m a horse.”

“Pogo stick.” She straddled me and glanced over her shoulder. “I’m going to ride this dick like a pogo stick.”

With her back facing me, she positioned herself over my rigid shaft. After a few test runs of grinding her wet mound all over the tip, I was ready to explode. I placed my hand on the small of her back, gripping her lightly as she slowly guided me into her.

Exercising caution, she gyrated her hips, taking a little more of my length with each careful stroke. My eyes fell closed, relishing in the satisfaction of having our bodies become one.

Her wetness rose and fell along the length of my shaft in perfect timing, like that of an expertly crafted Swiss watch’s movement. After a few strokes, I felt her tightness encompass me fully.

I opened my eyes.

Like a dancer who was performing in perfect timing with a song, Abby pumped her hips fore and aft, to music only she could hear. My eyes became fixed on the valley between the cheeks of her perfectly shaped ass. As she rose, revealing the length of my pleasure, my heart took pause.

When she reached the tip, she hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. I drew a quick breath. Her body was perfectly proportioned, and her skin silky smooth. Watching her devour me, inch by inch, was a pleasure in itself.

With our eyes locked, she ground herself against me, taking my entire shaft in one thrust of her hips. There, with me buried inside of her, she remained, smiling at her accomplishment. In a moment she began to contract.

Proving we were connected by much more than our touching flesh, her climax brought on mine. She milked me of my juices without moving a single muscle of her body.

As she wailed out her satisfaction, I, too, groaned in satisfaction.

With her work done, she collapsed against my body, laying her back against my chest. Still inside of her, I wrapped my arms around her and held her against me.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Magical,” she responded.

“Stomach?”

“Better.”

“Wrist? How’s the tattoo.”

“Don’t even know it’s there,” she breathed.

I kissed her neck. “That was incredible.”

“You’re incredible.”

“You want to shower?”

“Not right now,” she said. “I want to lay here and rest for a minute. I like your skin.”

I laughed. “I like your skin, too.”

“I love you, Porter.”

“I love you, too.”

The minute she spoke never expired from the clock. Within seconds, she was snoring, dead asleep.

I chose to let her sleep for a few minutes. She needed the rest. Since the seafood incident, she’d been exhausted.

I thought of Connecticut in the fall. The leaves. The cool air. Abby’s laughter. Her parent’s joy. The pride she’d wear on her face when she showed them the ring.

The pride I’d feel when she explained how I gave her the ring. How she learned, on that day, to accept some surprises as being a good thing.

In that moment of slumber, I decided I’d waited long enough. When she awoke, I’d give her the ring.

No exceptions.

I closed my eyes and nestled myself in the relief of knowing our proposal was on the horizon. I clutched her body tight to mine, hoping for another moment of feeling our skins become one.

And, it was there that I fell asleep.