Never get involved. That’s our mantra in the jewelry store. We may see a couple destined for divorce court before they are even married, but we smile and tolerate their bickering and sell them a wedding set.

Who are we to predict their demise? They could fight happily for the next forty years, for all we care. We’re just here to sell the rings, and the necklace for the anniversary, and the diamond earrings when he has to concede the argument…

We may see an older woman gleefully spending her retirement money on tourmaline jewelry, but she is happily in her dotage and could never need another penny of that money, what do we care? So she’ll have a little bit less to pass on to those greedy kids who are waiting for her demise. So the daughter’s shooting daggers at us out of her eyes, pleading with us not to take her mom’s thousand bucks cause she already has it spent on a new chaise lounge.

We don’t get involved.

But one day I had to.

We had a little kiosk in a mall somewhere south of here. I hated working there, but one night I was stuck, and a note had been left for me about some people ‘interested in my work’ who would be coming by that night. I made sure I hit the pretzel place for some refreshment, settled in with Bejeweled on the computer, and waited for them to show up. When they did, I sensed instant tension in the air.

A middle-aged couple, the woman was ever so slightly frumpy, with hair that could have used some more attention and a waistline that had probably been smaller once. She was, however, very kind and had a lovely smile, when it showed. The man was dressed to the nines, but in rather cheap clothes, and he had an air of superiority about him that set my teeth on edge from the start. His hair was thinning on top, so he made up for it- as many yuppie males do- with a bit more length in the back than was actually stylish, supplemented by lots of shiny hair gel. He scanned the cases while the woman began her timid request,

“Well, this used to be my mom’s wedding band,” she began, glancing at his face every few seconds for approval, “and, and I think I want to use the stones to make him a ring, but he thinks they’re not big enough, and he likes this ring here, with the squares, and we were just wondering if, if-”

Here he circled the case and abruptly cut her stammering off, “Could we trade this ring in towards that one, for me, and how much would you give us?”

I picked up the ring in question and studied it. Five, maybe six, very twinkly diamonds peeped out at me from a simple gold band. They were a fine grade of stone, and we would be happy to trade them towards our own ring.

“I always had hoped I could have them made into a band for myself,” she said softly, “but he said they don’t really match my ring.” Here she extended her hand towards me and I tried not to recoil.

Her ‘ring’ was an abomination of all things jewelry. A tiny, rock salt white diamond sat in a pointy illusion head, mounted on a band that looked like it had been designed by Tammy Faye Bakker’s makeup artist. Of course her inherited diamonds wouldn’t match- they were not only bigger than her center, but they were infinitely prettier! Just holding the rings near each other embarrassed me for whoever concocted that piece of jewelry joke sitting on her finger.

I opened our case and withdrew the ring that he was eyeing- nearly three thousand dollars worth of princess cut diamonds in a white gold channel set contemporary design. What a jerk.

Not that I have anything against a man having a nice wedding band. I don’t even care if the man has a better ring than his female counterpart, although tradition dictates otherwise. But to see a man spend less than two hundred dollars on his fiancee and then DEMAND something fifteen times the cost for himself- that is rather sickening.

I glanced at her face and saw her looking longingly at her mother’s ring. Deciding inside myself that she would keep those diamonds at all costs, I snapped my showcase shut, resolve forming in my mind.

“How about if we get you the best deal possible on this diamond men’s band and see what we can build out of her stones for a ladies’ wedding band?” I queried.

The man looked at her with complete disregard, “I’ve already told you what I think of those stones.” He said curtly.

Her face had gotten hopeful, “But, my mom is dead, and this would be something that would be so nice, and-”

“Fine.” He shrugged, walking away, “You’re paying for it anyhow.”

“What?” She seemed a little bit alarmed now, “But, but, you said you’d pay for mine if I bought you yours, and if we use these diamonds it’ll be cheaper than buying new ones, right?” she turned to me for affirmation, but the man was not listening.

His passive aggressive behavior was now beginning to wear on me, so I decided to ignore him and just try to salvage what I could with her.

“I could build a little band to go around the point of your engagement ring, right here, and fit all of your mother’s diamonds in it. They might not match, but maybe someday you can upgrade this center and have it all go together…” I trailed off because she wasn’t listening. She was gazing at the men’s band, at the price tag, and chewing her lip.

“I can afford this for him,” she mused, “if I dip into my 401K. But I really don’t think I can afford any more for myself, not with having to pay for-”

“What are you boring her with now?” The man had suddenly decided to be a part of our conversation again, just in time to prevent her from spilling more information. He grinned at me, rolled his eyes at her, and made a show of joviality.

I suggested to them that they could work within budget constraints by building him the same ring with smaller stones. He didn’t quite like that, and started the passive aggressive thing when she attempted to agree with me. I tried working out a ring setup using her stones for both of their bands, and she got confused. He made an exasperated sound and pointed at her, “See what I have to live with?”

I was too stunned and angry to answer. The woman stammered something in her defense, and he belittled her again. Before it could go any further, his phone rang and he whipped it out, stared at the caller ID, and flipped it open.

“Hello?” His voice was suddenly soft, low and kind. He walked away, completely ignoring his fiancee and her ring dilemma. She glanced at her watch and nodded,

“Seven thirty.” She sighed, “He always gets a call from his sister at seven thirty, and I can’t talk to him or interrupt him or even be near him when he does. I guess we’ll have to come back another day?”

The man had circled back behind the kiosk, still speaking low into his cellphone. I cocked an ear towards him as I put the diamond ring back in the case. No man speaks to his ‘sister’ in that tone of voice.

The woman was watching her betrothed with a dismal face, raking her fingers through her hair and gripping her mother’s ring tightly in the other hand.

“I am here again in three days,” I suggested, “would you want to come back then?”

She smiled wanly at me, “I-I don’t know, I can never make a decision that he is happy with, and I can’t interrupt him when he’s talking to his sister. They have to have their conversation every single day at seven thirty…” She was repeating herself in her stress.

“Sister, huh?” I said noncommittally while I drew up a quick ring design for her. I tried making it sound light, but it hit its mark and she blushed deeply and bent her head over her ring.

“I’ve never met her.” She said, her voice almost a whisper.

I know I am not supposed to get involved- a paying customer is a paying customer, after all. But I could no longer hold my peace, “You know,” I said, watching him, timing my words in case he should suddenly return again, “it’s not my place to say anything, not really, but I couldn’t help but notice that he isn’t exactly nice to you.”

“I know.” Her voice was even quieter than before, “But I do really want to get married…”

“Getting married is not worth this. Are you sure you want him pushing you around like this forever, while you fund it all?”

She cringed visibly. I was going to say more, but he snapped his phone shut and came striding towards us, a happy smile on his ratty little face.

“You’re right, I know.” She said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself lately. Maybe I need to put a lot more thought into this.”

He caught the tail end of her words and assumed she meant putting more thought into her ring purchase. “Can’t you ever make a decision?” He snorted, “I mean, geez, it’s just a ring! Come on, let’s go home.”

He took her elbow and steered her away from the counter, but I was able to pat her hand before she moved away. As they left, I could hear his voice rise and begin to complain to her about something again, and she looked back over her shoulder at me, a fresh determination in her face, and mouthed the words, “thank you.”

I never saw them again. I hope, for her own sake, that she kicked him to curb where he belonged and has since found the courage and self-respect to date men who value and cherish her. I hope she still has her mother’s diamonds, and I hope that my getting involved was more than just a fit of my own temper.

Nothing is worth treatment like that.