Free Unremarried Widow by Artis Henderson

I wore my good dress. When we came back to the room, Miles got down on one knee. I cried and he cried and the next thing I knew, he was slipping a ring on my finger.
    But in the night I got up to use the bathroom and stood for a long time in front of the mirror. People say we always think we look likeourselves, even as we age, even as we put on weight, even as we’re cratered with uncertainty. I turned my face from side to side, trying to determine if I resembled the woman I had once been.
    At school on Monday the other aides fussed over my ring. I blushed as I held out my hand and the diamonds glinted in the glare from the fluorescent lights. Later in the week Ms. Walker stopped me in the hallway.
    â€œYou coming to the party tonight?” she said.
    Her second-grade class trailed after her in a line and slumped against the wall as we talked.
    â€œIs that tonight?” I said.
    â€œYou got other plans?”
    â€œMiles is in the field.”
    â€œThen come over.”
    I pulled into her driveway a little after eight, and when I knocked on the front door a woman answered. She was curved like Ms. Walker—not heavy exactly but full-figured. Pretty with good hair.
    â€œCome on in,” she said.
    I followed her through the coatroom and into the living room, where people milled. Some of the teachers from school were there but mostly it was women I didn’t know. I saw a plate of cheese cubes on a side table next to a bowl of spinach dip and I headed there.
    â€œGirl, there you are.” Ms. Walker gave me a hug. “Glad you could come.”
    â€œYou look great,” I said.
    She did. She had on dark red lip gloss and tight brown pants.
    â€œLet me get you something to drink,” she said. “Can I get you some wine?”
    â€œWine would be great.”
    She filled a glass with chardonnay from a gallon-size bottle, thekind you buy at Walmart for $8.99. The doorbell rang and she handed me the glass.
    â€œLet me go get that,” she said.
    I took a sip and started in on the cheese. I ate cube after cube of orange squares. When women began moving to the couch, I filled a paper plate and followed them to the sectional. The cushions sank as I sat. Ms. Walker flipped on the big flat-screen TV at the center of the room and scanned the channels until she found an Oprah rerun.
    â€œDid you see the episode where she—”
    â€œAnd that time when she—”
    â€œThat outfit she wore when—”
    I sipped my chardonnay and shifted on the couch. If someone looked in my direction, I smiled.
    â€œLet’s play that game,” the friend who had answered the door said. “The game with the questions.”
    Ms. Walker turned from the kitchen counter.
    â€œThe paper’s right there on the table.”
    The friend picked up squares of blank paper and a handful of pens.
    â€œPay attention now,” she said.
    The hum of conversation died down.
    â€œWe thought we’d play a little game so everybody can get to know one another,” she said. “Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to hand out these pieces of paper. You write down a question for the group—don’t put your name on it—and fold it up and put it in this jar I’m going to pass around.”
    The conversations started up again, louder.
    The woman on my left turned to me. “We put our name on it?”
    I shook my head. “Just your question.”
    A woman standing in the kitchen raised her hand. “I’ve got a question.”
    â€œGirl, we’re not in school,” the pretty friend said. “You don’t have to raise your hand.”
    â€œWell, what kind of question are we asking?”
    â€œAnything you want.”
    I looked at the blank scrap of paper in my hand. Anything? I thought about something dirty, something funny, something crazy. But I didn’t know these women or how it would go over. Something I already knew the