Sitting on the dock, legs dangling into the murky abyss is Katrina. Her eyes match the color of the lipstick she wore on our first date. My calloused feet tip toe along the wooden frame to get closer to her and I think for just a moment about the danger of a splinter embedding itself in the pad of my foot. There is a quiet, rough sound that is coming from her. A harbinger of sorrow escapes her throat though she tries to kill the messenger. Gliding down her face like graceful skaters are tears. As one falls down her cheek it reminds of the condensation from her wine glass when she was slumped over the dining table sleeping instead of drinking.