The Ring

The ring sat on the bus seat between them, small and unapologetic.

—Found it in the footwell, Mick said.

Leo stared at the silver band. It looked cheap under the fluorescent lights of the Number 12.

—Right.

—You’re not going to take it?

—Why would I?

—Well, it’s hers, ain’t it?

Leo looked out at the rain-streaked window, the Coventry ring road a blur of orange sodium lamps.

—Was hers, Mick. That’s the difference.

—Still. Seems wrong just leaving it there.

—Leave it for the cleaners. Or the next poor soul.

Leo stood up as the bus braked.

—Keep it.