“Dar’ l’..I..ing,” his shrill voice issues that sweet word. For richer or poorer, for better or worse he is the iron at my ankle. I calmly bend forward to put my sandals back on and then I sink back into the yachts deck chair. He can wait in his palace on the lake for me to drown this Merlot that puddles as dark as his blood from where he has fallen. I am tied to that chair and his cries. He is tied to my malice. Alone for the first night since the accident I can finally stop pretending.