The Head of a Pin

I bought this pin today. It's the most I've ever spent on a piece of jewelry.

It's in place now, but I've been taking it out every couple of hours to attempt to get a good picture of it. It is a larger gauge than any of my other pins, so removing it and putting it back in is painful, but I keep doing it, hoping that I'll figure out how to get a clear shot of the detailed metalwork. My eyes water every time I try.

One year ago today, right about this time of the evening, Peter leaned back against the sofa, looked down at his feet, and started the weeks-long process of telling me that we were through. I was sporting the scab from the screwdriver incident then; the professional piercing was still a few weeks off.

I can't explain why it's bothering me this much, this anniversary of a brief conversation. It wasn't even the most painful discussion that we had in those long few months of last year. I can't explain it to my housemates, can't explain it to the Amazon, can't explain it to Hardt. Maybe I can't explain it to them because I can't explain it to myself. Doc would probably be able to help me work through it, but, for reasons that will become clear, she and I don't delve too deeply into this corner of my emotional baggage. "I dunno. I'm just in a mood. I'm sure it'll go away once I get some sleep." I don't believe this, but I say it anyway.