A wedding ring is a trap. Or, to be precise, a snare: a wire wound round a trickling neck. The red ribbon centipedes down, against marsupial consent, to join the cinch at the waist. Pawning off—the rounding error, the unskimmed. The above-prime rate, as marginal return, whispered off the trader's slate.

A wedding ring is forfeiture that asks, "What epsilon approach enough never to erupt from dark? What pennies cloak themselves in seemly verdigris, that the audit might slip overhead?" A question cannot be concurred.

When surfeit and certitude convene, we grant, the calipers relax. The laser light and lens both begin to drift, and those kids, wave-function and time-series, begin to dance. The ribbon proceeds, down belly, to trace a velvet inseam. No call, no run—just an anklet turn en pointe.

Two trackers, working backwards, will sniff the red dots and the earth. "This," says one, "is emboldened."