He doesn't know about the money. He would **** me if he knew.  The painted picture of who I am is who he loves. Not me.

I enjoy him on the edge of a precipice, knowing a handy shovel in the back yard could clock me on the corner of my head.  He's used it before as a metaphor.  He said, "Hold on," stepping off the porch to the back woods of our yard.  He walked too purposefully to take a break to ***.  I knew! Instinctively I knew.

The shovel was in his sight.

Dread drenched me in cold, clammy clutches.  I searched for my escape, left and right.  Even up or under the couch. To no avail! There was none!  His eyes were black as stone, one hand around the wooden shovel shaft and one grasping the porch door handle to open it.

He walked in and stood over me, glaring down into my eyes.  Astonishingly and calmly he laid the shovel against the arm chair of our patio couch and asked me why I wanted to dig his grave.

Relief washed over me in a peaceful symbiotic wave.  I wasn't going to die!

Our conversation garbled on,  talking, talking, talking on.

He doesn't know about the money. He would **** me if he knew.