My boyfriend gave me the ring three months ago, and even after re-sizing the jeweler had to add two small platinum bumps to the inside to help it stay in place. I took off the ring when I did yoga or the dishes or my hair or when I rubbed lotion into my hands. At night I nestled it into a cushioned box. Sometimes I forgot to put it on in the morning. Those were the good old days. Now it’s stuck. My finger seems to have thickened in resistance, perhaps with the heat, or with the skin perhaps having grown a callous where the ring’s bumps groove it. I’ve tried soap, I’ve tried Vaseline, and still I hold my breath against the pain. Now that the ring seems to be a permanent fixture, I worry I’ll damage it with the rattle of the lawnmower handle or the chemicals in my styling cream. I worry my finger will swell and purple in the night, dead by morning. I worry I will forget the pleasure of a naked finger. I tell myself there’s no need to panic. My fingers will shrink again in winter. I could probably shrink them now by resting them on a bag of frozen peas for twenty minutes. This situation is temporary, I say in my soothing inner voice; it’s just a matter of blood vessels expanding so heat can escape through the skin.