“I don’t want any tonight.”
He froze. At first, I actually laughed.
“George, what’s wrong?”
He stared at my glass. Then at me.
“Drink it.”
His voice sounded completely different.
“I said I don’t want it.”
He slammed his hand against the table so hard that both glasses shook.
“Margaret, just drink it.”
In forty years of marriage, I had never seen him react like that.
I stood up.
“Why is this so important to you?”
He said nothing.
Then he picked up his own glass, drank it in one swallow, and walked out of the kitchen. I barely slept that night.
One thought had entered my mind, and I couldn’t get rid of it.
Why had he been so frightened when I refused to drink?
