Free The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson

pleasantly surprised to find a ring with a difference in that little box. A large, clear, deep-blue gem surrounded by twenty or so little diamonds, all displayed in a classic gold setting. It matched my eyes, Tyler said. And it spoke of his unending love for me.
    He told me he’d searched long and hard for this ring. Knowing I’m not a traditional sort, he didn’t want to give me a traditional ring. Indeed, long-held customs often ring empty in the smiling face of love. Give me true love, not rote vows; give me fresh sparkle, not dusty old traditions; give me your heavenly self, not your hell-bent ego. Take me to the altar, but take me daily with your passionate, unbridled loving.
    You see, a nicely cut but generic diamond in a nicely appointed but generic setting would not do. Not to mention that the price of such a nicely turned-out ring could feed a family of four for years. Hence the regal sapphire and her circle of dazzling friends.
    Last night Ty’s band was the entertainment at a party I attended, and I wore that humungous hunk of hot-pink crystal I’d conjured with orgasmic spells. Next to it sat my new engagement ring. Pink dazzle threatened to upstage its blue glow, but the engagement ring far outshone the pink bauble with a glorious purity of refracted light and a depth of radiance that was downright heavenly.
    The very giving of this ring was an expression of love. And that’s my idea of marriage: a daily expression of love and faith and trust. If you truly love and trust your partner, then you need no legal binding, no formal vows, no signing of contracts, no flashing of jewelry. Then, and only then, can you hold a ceremony with words (vows) and gestures (kisses) and objects (rings and papers) to share your divine and everlasting love with friends and family, or simply whisper the affirmation to each other.

“‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.’” Wanda regales the girls with the evening’s Parker tidbit and Rose carries the Dot from there.
    â€œAssholes! They loved my Raz Ma Taz monologue but they said I was too old for the part. That’s the end of my life in show business! Too old—at least according to a bunch of producers who look fourteen. I mean, seriously, I’m an actor. I can play any age!”
    â€œAssholes!” Con agrees, flashing her sapphire-and-diamond ring before Rose’s eyes, which are only seeing red at the moment.
    With Con ready to pop, the girls have decided to fit in a toast or two before the big day. They have settled into a booth at Prohibition in the city’s east end. Mrs. Parker would approve of the free-flowing alcohol. In the 1920s and 1930s, she bucked prohibition at every opportunity with speakeasy hopping and bathtub gin, no doubt even while pregnant (once, and it ended in miscarriage). But in the twenty-first century, Con is obeying the law of prohibition for pregnant women: not a drop has passed her lips since that test came back positive.
    Wanda and Rose, on the other hand, are drinking cava as if the Temperance League were ready to pounce and confiscate. At least they don’t have to drink it out of coffee mugs. On her fourth glass, Rose is holding forth on the state of the entertainment industry.
    â€œThat little worm of a playwright, feted and funded, sat behind a table with the other little worms, trying for all his might to look like goddamn Spielberg in a baseball cap. That tiny poseur who doesn’t know the first thing about women . . .”
    She has attracted an audience, as the guys at the bar lend an ear to her growing-in-volume voice. “His script was full of hyperbole and nonsense, and his female characters were totally unbelievable. Not the kind of thing for an actor such as myself!”
    â€œYou are a brilliant actor.” Con raises her glass of cranberry spritzer, diamond-and-sapphire jewelry nicely showcased against the deep red liquid.
    â€œSarah