Mr. Martin pulled up to the lit house, securing his pockets as he shoved the flaps in, then rocking his car to a stop. He turned the keys, and pulled the valued metal out of the shaped jaws they fed each day from seven to seven thirty a.m. and nine to ten thirty p.m. Mr. Martin was a workingman. He clicked the car's head beams off with a bend of a knob and collected his things. His tattered brown briefcase that rode on the passenger seat next to him, his expensive leather coat, his illuminant cell phone, and his golden wedding band, flickering dully in the dim garage hum. He eased the yellow ring onto his bronzed finger, gave it a few twists then held it up before him, admiring its subtle presence. Mr. Martin sighed as he clumsily moved out of the warm leather seat of his car, and then skillfully pressed the silver car door shut behind him. With his light jacket draped over his arm and the worn handle of his luggage clutched tightly in his hand, Mr. Martin jumped up the three wooden steps that led to the white aluminum garage door. He quickly turned the knob, flinging the door wide open for his grand entrance.

'Darling, I've arrived.'� Mr. Martin called slyly. The sweet red warmth of his kitchen flew around him, greeting him with the scent of the scrumptious meal that leaked from the oven. He gracefully threw his jacket and briefcase on an antique chair and flung his arms above him as if he were addressing an army of battle-ready men.

'Scott!'� Mr. Martin's charming wife sung the name like she was a dove cooing with the morning. She was standing over the stovetop adding salt to her meticulously cooked gravy. Mrs. Martin brushed her hands together, letting fall a miniature snowfall for the bitter winter on the floor.

'How are you dear? Dinner smells wonderful,'� The two met at the counter-top, Mr. Martin delicately placed his large hands on his wife's freckled shoulders, then bent down to kiss her. 'I see you got my flowers?'� He said as he noticed the bright bouquet soaking luxuriously in a crystal vase of tap water. The soft violet roses looked like a lamp that had been switched on neatly by a passing salesman.

'They're beautiful.'� Whispered Mrs. Martin as she gazed playfully into Mr. Martin's stare. 'Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes, just let me go up and change. I must look like a mess now.'�

'Is there something you want me to do?'� Mr. Martin asked the question out of manner rather then concern.

'No, its fine, I'll be ready in a little while.'�

'Alright.'� Mr. Martin smiled weakly then turned back to the dusty green chair where he had left his things.

'Alright.'� Mrs. Martin could see that the welcoming excitement had faded.

Once his wife had vanished up the carpeted stairs, Mr. Martin took his briefcase into the isolated office that branched lazily off the kitchen. He flicked on the blinding white light and set his case on the tarnished cherry desk. Checking the well-lit corners of the room with a hasty glance and shutting the creaking door behind him, Mr. Martin sat down in his hard burgundy chair and eagerly rolled the combination to his briefcase. The old faux leather briefcase he got on his wedding day in June ten years before. The briefcase that he locked and unlocked every day, even though it could easily be broken apart at its brass hinges. The briefcase that now held a small velvet-blue box.

The top of the case opened loosely as Mr. Martin flipped it up with a whoosh of dry air. He saw the blue box and stared down at it with nervous infatuation. He anxiously pocketed the gift then dropped the brown lid of the briefcase with startled glee when he heard his giddy wife coming down the stairs.

'Scott?'�

'Yes dear?'�

'Where are you?'�

'In the office.'�

'Stay there for a minute.'�

'Alright.'� Mr. Martin smirked as he imagined what revealing outfit his wife had put on for him. He heard plates echo and glasses sparkle as his wife set out the feast she lovingly made for the two of them, though mainly for him.

'You can come out now, Scott.'� Sung his wife once the clatter and brush had stopped. Mr. Martin carefully opened the office door; wanting to relish the moment he would catch view of his wife. She was standing beside their small table, fragilely leaning the weight of her hand on the back of a peach colored chair. She was wearing a dark blue dress that fit her pliable form like it had the day she bought it six years before.

'Do you like the dress?'� She said softly. Mr. Martin grinned as he studied his wife's youthful body. She would never age, he thought.

'You look stunning.'� Mr. Martin wisped as he moved towards the spot where she stood.

'I'm glad.'� She whispered. Mr. Martin effortlessly kissed her porcelain forehead and smoothly pulled a chair out for her. Mrs. Martin sat down, pulling forward the silk folds of her dress.

'Scott, I think you look very out-of-place tonight. What are you thinking?'� Mr. Martin frowned with fidgety carelessness. To himself, she only mattered; she was his only thought at the moment.

'I'm fine,'� he muttered weakly. 'How was your day?'� Mr. Martin uneasily sat in the chair opposite his wife, bowing his head in the guilt of not saying what she wanted to hear. The quiet tips of Mrs. Martin's smile relaxed with dignified anger.

'Well, I woke around eight. I cleaned till eleven, and then went to the store and the post office and then to workout with Mary. And about four o' clock I came home, took a shower, and went to class, which went quite well. We sketched a still life of the courtyard and Nick Wilkinson drew something excellence of two girls by the fountain. I came home then cooked and you came home.'� She smiled contently, 'That's my day, what was yours like?'�

'Got up at six and took a shower. Then went to work, I think I might get a buy on the Opaley house down on East River. Showed it to this elderly couple with two cats and an obsession with birds. I told them the area has a great variety of sparrows and cardinals, damn birds. They made an offer of eighty thousand, reasonable, I'm happy with that. So, did some paperwork, and drove home. There was an accident out on interstate sixty-nine. Five car pile up, pretty brutal, so traffic got kind of impatient.'� Mr. Martin heaved a fulfilled breath of air, having contributed a pleasant tune to the day.

'That's nice.'� Mrs. Martin said
respectively. 'Richard Opaley was the man who got the grant in England?'�

'Yes, he moved there in June with his family. Said Europe is the only place he can get some recognition.'� Mr. Martin reached forward and grasped the night green bottle of wine in front of him. Turning it round and round as he read the label with superior articulation. 'Bordeaux Red. Wow, '87, I forgot I had this one.'� He grabbed the already loosened cork and, with difficulty, ripped it from its glass home. 'This one is a good one. And the best occasion.'� He grinned heart fully. His wife sweetened her expression shyly, widening her eyes and blushing. Mr. Martin poured the claret wine in the clear glasses his wife had so carefully set out. He corked the wine, then took his own glass, swirling the crimson drink around and sniffing it as though he was familiar with the rich scent. His wife did the same, though knew the details of the smell well.

'A toast, to ten amazing years, a decennial of being with the most beautiful, intelligent, wonderful lady in the world.'� Mr. Martin announced gaily, holding high his sparkling glass.

'And many more years to come with my wonderful man.'� Choked Mrs. Martin, almost wishing for the fact to come true. Mr. Martin tilted his brow curiously and took a gulp of deep red wine down his throat.

'Yes many more years.'� He said quietly, wondering if that's what his wife really wanted. The awkwardness was sad between the married couple, pity derived from both their frowns.

'Well, lets eat. That's turkey there, and potatoes, and creamed corn, and, oh, the gravy!'� Mrs. Martin jumped out of her seat and rushed to the hot stove. 'Ah, damn.'� She mourned, 'I burnt the gravy.'� Disappointed, she tossed the pot into the sink and lousily floated back to her seat.

'Its fine, Grace. Your food is just as delicious without gravy.'� Mr. Martin assured her as he slopped potatoes on his plate.

'Oh well, I think the turkey's moist anyway this time.'� Mrs. Martin began to slowly fill her plate with the warily made dishes she had cooked.

'Mmm, this tastes delicious, honey.'� Mr. Martin spat with a mouth full of turkey and potato.

'Does it? Good, I'm glad.'�

After much savoring, chewing, and digesting, the meal was well approved and their stomachs swelled in gratitude. Mrs. Martin sipped the last of her wine then took her husband's and her own plate to her polished steel sink.

'Pour me another glass. Won't you dear?'� Mr. Martin uncorked the now light green bottle of wine, filling Mrs. Martin's glass halfway, then topping off his own. He smugly set the bottle aside, listening to his wife's drunken giggle.

'Honey, I really like these dishes. We should get a few more.'� Mrs. Martin was inelegantly rinsing the dried potatoes and strands of turkey from her strong china plates.

'Those were our wedding gifts from your grandfather, remember. He said he saved up the money since you were born to buy them. Saved it up just for your wedding present.'�

'Oh yes I do remember, what a nice man, we should go visit him soo... Opps!'� Mrs. Martin giggled, 'Oh I just broke one.'� She slowly began picking chunks of glossy china from the swirling waters of the sink.

'Why don't you worry about that later?'� Mr. Martin jumped to the counter turning the faucet off and rubbing his wife's hands with a damp white towel.

'Oh, alright.'� She said glibly.

'Here, come sit by the fire with me.'� Mr. Martin led his wife to a slick brown couch in the living room adjacent to the kitchen. He had started an indistinguishable orange fire with the flip of a switch by the mantel. The fake logs burned unchangingly, flaring up in sprites of silver and red flames.

'Oh isn't that pretty.'� Mrs. Martin, supported by her husband, sat down by the hot fire. 'Boy that's nice.'� She chirped as she gazed into the dancing colors.

'Yeah, it is'� Grace'� Grace!'�

'Uh?'�

'Are you listening?'�

'Yes.'�

'Alright'� Grace, you are the greatest person I have ever met. You mean the world to me, you mean life and joy and beauty, everything to me, and I love you more then love can. '�love. These past ten years have been sheer bliss, and I will do everything in my power to spend the next ten years with'�Grace'�Grace, look over here'�thank you. I was saying, I'll do everything I can to keep you as my wife, because I love you more then anything and'�. Grace'�have you been listening?'�

'Yes, yes, of course I have.'�

'Okay. Well, Grace I want you to have this.'� Mr. Martin pulled the small velvet-blue box from his pocket, kneeling down in front of his wife, and lifting the lid to reveal the precise prize inside.

'Oh! Its lovely Nick!'�

'Yes, its an eight carat'�Nick!!'�

'Oh.'� Mrs. Martin giggled, covering her deep smile with the palm of her rosy hand. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I meant to say Scott. Oh, but it is quite lovely. Here, put it on my finger.'� Mrs. Martin produced her flushed left hand for her bewildered husband. In a sinking daze Mr. Martin pulled the amethyst, weathered ring from his wife's slender finger.

'Why are you taking my wedding ring?'� She boasted loudly.

'This is your wedding ring.'� Mr. Martin cried as he held the blue box in front of her face to see. 'It's an eight carat, hand cut, diamond.'� He croaked sadly.

'Wow, its very nice. Why do I need a new wedding ring though? The one I have is perfectly alright.'�

Mr. Martin sighed and slipped the refined and glinting diamond on her finger, dropping the other ring into the blue box, then snapping it shut and tucking it away in his pocket. Mrs. Martin examined the gem with glee.

'What's wrong with the other one?'� She asked, still staring at the ring. Mr. Martin groaned and stood up, looking down at his spacey wife.

'I stole that other one from my mother. She wants it back.'�

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