The Wrong Love Ends

The evening breeze on the seventh day of the seventh month carried a persistent heat that pressed heavily on the heart. I carried a plate of freshly cut, chilled fruit, my steps light as I walked toward the living room, hoping Mario Collins might share this moment of coolness. Just as I turned the corner of the foyer, I saw him sitting in the center of the sofa, fingertips lightly pinching the wedding ring he had worn for three years, his gaze fixed downward in quiet concentration. The platinum ring, bathed in the light of the crystal chandelier, emitted a cold, faint glow that stung the eyes. "Why did you suddenly take off your ring?" I placed the fruit plate on the coffee table; the crisp sound broke the silence in the room. "The watermelon was just cut; it's sweet—try some." Mario Collins did not move. He slowly lifted his head, his gaze as calm and still as a stagnant pond, devoid of any former tenderness. "Three years." He gently laid the ring on the glass coffee table, his voice so flat it scarcely seemed as though he spoke of his own marriage. "If we're going to divorce, we should at least find a decent reason." I was momentarily stunned, then laughed and reached out to take the ring. "Mario, what madness is this? It's just a quarrel between spouses—do you really need to say such bitter things?" He raised his hand to stop me; his fingertips were icy cold. "When midsummer snows, we will go through the formalities." His gaze met mine unwaveringly, devoid of any mockery—only undeniable resolve. The fruit plate wobbled in my hand; a few slices of watermelon slipped out, their juice staining the pale carpet, spreading into a small dark blot. "Are you serious?" My voice trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat breaking out on my palms. "I've never been more serious." He stood up and turned, heading straight for the study. The heavy solid wood door slammed shut with a bang, rattling the picture frames on the wall and tightening my eardrums, making my chest constrict with unease.