Perhaps we'll find out

Curtis was making the rounds on an empty day, checking the clock more than a school kid **** for recess. It was the end of the day, and he was in charge of closing up. He was walking by the not-Picasso closest to the back when he heard a faint but insistent knocking at the back door. A quick look around told him that no patron would be around to touch the exhibit with their sticky little hands, and he hurried to check on the sound. Opening the door revealed a strange woman, looking as ready to go home as he felt. I say "strange" because Smaltsburg doesn't really have anyone that Curtis wouldn't recognize, not because anything else about her was particularly unusual. Still, to see a new delivery driver was strange.

"Sign for this," she said, pushing out the clip board.

Curtis surreptitiously took in the way her drab brown uniform top hugged her waist. At least, he thought he was subtle until she rolled her eyes and pushed the clip board deeper into his chest. He signed it, looking around for the crate that he'd be unloading alone to atone for his indiscretion. Instead, she handed him a very small box and turned to leave. Opening the hinged box revealed a silver band, with some kind of writing that he didn't recognize carved into the exterior.

"Hey, who is this..." he began, but the woman was already in her big brown truck and away. "...for," he finished. Fuck.

Unsure of what to do, Curtis locked up the back door and went to the security office where he could check the cameras and close up. Sure enough, the Museum was empty. He leaned back as far as he dared in the rolling desk chair and examined the thing, as well as the box it came in. It was an odd cardboard box, not resembling a ring box at all from the outside, but soft and velvety on the inside as if whoever had made it was terrified of destroying the odd silver ring. Notably absent from anything he received was any kind of documentation. No intended recipient, nothing. Examining it, it didn't seem like a particularly fragile thing, though, so he slipped it on.

The thing went on perfectly. Like, on every finger. He tried it on one finger and the next, and each time it seemed to be made for the digit, which doesn't make any damn sense. He ended up leaving it on his left ring finger, intentionally not thinking about how well it fit in place of the wedding ring he'd only recently taken off (and chucked into a sewer drain, symbolically). Fuck him if the thing didn't look right at home there, too. He examined his hand trying to remember which way of looking at his nails was the middle school gay test, and decided to leave it for now. He'd bring it up with the owners in the morning. Now, though, he was tired and it was time to close up, and he damn well didn't want to leave this ring where just anyone could find it in the morning. Something told him that would be wrong.