Ring

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Elisabeth Horem. Ring

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THE RING

ELISABETH HOREM

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But Quentin was not a diplomat, thank God, and his utterly subaltern position at the consulate spared him the need to make the nightly thirteen-kilometer circuit. He preferred to stay at home most evenings, reading or watching local television shows of which he understood not a word, but which relaxed him for that very reason.

He liked his new apartment. He had almost settled in, though he lacked the will to address certain details and be done with them. The apartment already suited him just as it was, and he knew very well that the last things which remained to be done—hanging a few pictures, having some curtains made, or changing the glass tabletop he had broken the first day by setting a hot pan on it—would never get done. Louise used to enjoy making all-day projects out of rearranging something that was perfectly fine to start with, or fixing things that weren’t broken. She was one of those people who got passionate about having faucets changed or heaters serviced. If she had been there, she would have taken charge, not resting until she had hung the engravings, ordered the curtains, and had the glass tabletop replaced. Not doing any of this felt a little like revenge, which he found gratifying.

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