Flea Market Finds
Article and Art by Katie Kamio
“Where have you been?” I ask the tarnished ring encased in memories. It sits dejected on a tray sparsely littered with rings at a flea market; the gold speckles of light dance off the translucent stone and the silver band is scratched with wear. The ring warms to my touch and asks if I will be the one to take it home. It glitters with seductive promises but I cannot decide if I want to make it mine. I find myself wondering about the ring; who has it seen?
Maybe once you belonged to a girl with straw-colored hair, who went shopping on the weekends and wore you out to the country club. The kind of girl who at the club would spin in circles with her friends, tossing her hair, carefree in the limelight. Her drink sloshing in its plastic container. Eyes are magnetized to her and she commands them, the center of the club, the main attraction. Her friend leans in to say something and all of a sudden, she is laughing. The ring on her finger, the same ring, sparkles in the disco light, highlighting her dainty fingers and her meticulous taste. And then one night, as she is spinning in a circle, twisting to the beat of the speakers, she lands in front of him.
“Having fun?” He smiles down at her.
“The time of my life,” she replies with a shy grin.
“There’s one thing missing,” he says.
“What?” She asks.
He motions to her hand, “A drink, let me buy you one.”
She agrees and the ring sparkles a little extra, accentuating the twist of tequila and lime she ordered.
On their first date, the ring is paired with a sleek glass of red wine and then white on their second date. Then they move in together and the year blends into two. Slowly she removes the rings from her hands, hoping soon that her left hand will be adorned with just one weighty ring.
Eventually, years later, when there is a baby or two, she goes through her jewelry box. And the woman sets aside the sparkling ring for someone else. She drops it off at a donation center where a curator happens upon the sparkly piece and places it in their gleaming tent. The ring, old and worn, sits tired. The veins of tarnish wear into the metal, hoping for a breath of new life.
And now I find the ring at the flea market, where it is hoping to grace the fingers of another lucky life. I ponder and then decide against the ring and turn to leave, and that is where you come in. You find the ring at the flea market and decide that it is perfect for one of your middle fingers. You buy it and then weeks later find yourself on a date:
He sits across the table, weighing his words.
“I don’t read much these days, let alone fantasy novels, but I’d give it a try.”
You blurt out, “I can send you some fun titles, I’ve heard fairy novels are in, maybe you could try that?” You smile, he smirks, the ring on your hand glints.
“Not a chance, I’d probably read something more factual.”
“How do you know fantasy isn’t real -- fairies are very factual, thank you very much,” you volley back with a sly grin.
He laughs and asks the waiter for a check.
“You know, I’ve had a good night,” he says, nearing your apartment complex.
“I have too,” you bluff, knowing you won’t text this guy back after.
He leans in for a kiss and you feign ignorance, turning to look the other way.
“Oh, pretty flowers,” you say out of the blue. Then you turn toward him to say your goodbyes. He recomposes himself, smiles, and says “I hope to see you soon,” and then walks away.
The ring sparkles on your hand as you twirl it around your finger. “Good riddance,” you think to yourself on the elevator ride up, and the ring dances as you text another guy from the same dating app, who you’ve been secretly crushing on.
But in the end, the ring sits at the flea market; its past and future sit unknown. It dances in the light waiting as I come back for it. I let it dance on my hand during the drive back and when I do go dancing, the ring nods along to the beat and all those who have worn it in the past.