Steam rises from his Black Dog Restaurant mug. Today is supposed to be the day. And it will still be the day. The ring is coming off. Seven years have passed, and this was his parting promise as she took her last breath. Seven had always been their lucky number.
He fiddles with the ring’s grip as it bathes in the glint of December’s ungenerous sun.
If not now, when?
The scent of syrup upon sausages breaks him from his reverie. He eats slowly, methodically. Maybe there’s no rush. The day is still young.
He gets a to-go box only because she’d always hated wasting food.
Back in his Jeep, he spots a black lab, bounding towards him from the dock. This dog is too scrawny to be the namesake of The Black Dog Restaurant. Must be a stray, which is unlikely on such a dog-friendly island. Even if he is someone’s, he has no business being outside in this cold.
Without hesitation, he offers up his leftover sausage to the sweet hound, who inhales it as if on cue, then jumps into the car.
He then takes off his ring, gingerly placing it in the glove compartment for safe-keeping until they get home.