Making changes in the way we live our life is to admit something was wrong, or we had been living a life filled with mistakes. When natural changes occur through the course of merely living, it can only be described as progress. Progress is change over time; a step or steps in the right direction, one at a time, making simple improvements which one day might lead to a brighter future, a better way, or a life with less complication.

Progress. Equals. Improvement.

Somewhat nervously, I studied her as she sat quietly across the table from me. “We’ve made quite a bit of progress in only a few months. I never thought I’d give two fucks about a woman for as long as I lived, but I’ll be the first to admit I was wrong. You’re one hell of a woman, Avery.”

She smiled and tilted her chin downward slightly. “Appreciate it.”

“You know, I’m not one for flowers and cards, or any kind of shit like that. And for me to think of marriage.” I inhaled a short choppy breath.

“Well, it just doesn’t make any fucking sense. For me to conform to the rules and regulations society establishes as law? I can’t do it. A piece of paper is required by the court to show how I feel about another person? I can’t wrap my mind around that. But Avery, there are other types of commitment.” I stood from my seat.

I reached down and pulled my keychain from the clip on my belt. Methodically, I walked to the cabinet and pushed the key in the lock. A lone cardboard box sat amongst the cuts and patches in the cabinet. I removed it, walked back to the table and sat down.

I laid the box in front of me on the table and placed my hands on the top as if protecting it from harm. “You know when you’re a teenager you ask a girl to go steady. You get older, you say you’re what is it? People say we’re exclusive. You get a little older or maybe a little more committed and you buy a ring and say you’re engaged. If you get her another ring, you’re married. My life isn’t like that. Sure as fuck isn’t. Here, in the world of the MC, things are much different. The commitment might be the same or deeper, but the means of expressing it is different.”

I gazed at the floor, inhaled through my nose, and shifted my eyes to meet hers. “Avery, I need to ask you something.”

She lifted her chin and glanced up. “I’m listening.”

Short breaths; just take it easy, Slice. You can do this.

I slid the box across the table and held my right hand on the top as I swallowed heavily. “I want to know if you’re interested in this.”

I removed my hand from the box and sat back in my chair.

She narrowed her eyes, opened the box, and peered inside. Carefully, she reached in and removed the leather cut. After placing it on the table beside her, she unfolded it and stared down at the back of the cut. Her gaze never shifted upward.

A little more nervous than I expected, I stammered as I attempted to speak. “I uhhm. I stitched it myself. I know it ain’t much, but I think having my hands involved in actually making it gives it a little more importance, you know? Makes it that much more, hell I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Meaningful. Yeah, more meaningful.”

I stood from my seat and crossed my arms. “Before you answer, let me explain a few things. Wearing it means more than you think. When two people get married, the woman gets a ring, and with that ring she gets a sense of ownership and a feeling of commitment from her husband. He, in turn, wears a ring showing his commitment to her. When you see them together, and they’re each wearing a ring, there’s no doubt they belong together and they’re committed to each other. If they’re apart, however, all you know is that each one is committed – because of the rings they wear, but you don’t know where the commitment lies.”

I nodded my head toward the cut. “Now with that, it’s obvious where the commitment lies. My name is on the back of it, and you’re wearing it. Anyone see’s that cut on you, and they know you’re mine and I’m yours. There’s no question.”

“You know, most people don’t understand the Property Of patch. Not only am I claiming you, but it’s worn as a warning to others outside the club that the Ol’ Lady wearing the patch is to be respected the same as a fully patched male member, and that she warrants the same protections as her male member counterpart. That patch, Avery, says don’t fuck with this girl, in more ways than one. You’d be the President’s Ol’ Lady, and nobody, and I do mean nobody will fuck with you.”

“So,” I said. “Will you be my Ol’Lady?”

She stood from her seat, slipped her arms through the cut, and snapped each button carefully. She glanced up at the motto posted on the wall and swallowed heavily. As she rubbed her bracelet with her thumb and forefinger, she inhaled a shallow breath and shifted her gaze down to meet mine.

God damn, woman, say something…