One Ring

I went on another miserable date tonight. M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. And, the worst part is that there wasn't anything wrong with the guy. He, in it of himself, was fine. We had nothing in common or worth talking about. Nor do I have any interest in ever spending another second with him. But there is nothing wrong with him as a human being.

There was just no reason that he and I should be sitting across from each other eating food.

There is no reason I should be sitting across from any guy, save the beta. After all, my life post-betadom is just one random occurrence and act of utter senseless desperation after another.

I wore my wedding ring on the date. On my right hand, but still. In all its platinum-forever symbolism, there was me, trying not to nod myself to sleep on a horrendously boring date, flashing my feelings of monogamy and devotion to another, brazenly on my right ring finger.

Sadly, I wore it because I wanted so badly to be with the beta tonight, that I thought at least that object would bring something of his presence nearer to me.