and he went into the sea, to the deep mother-water to breathe again. Safe, now, he thought, and the cooling waves lapped over the toes he dangled Over the boat's side. Port? Yes
and the drink was smooth as it burned down her throat. She didn't know why it tasted so good, this burning, but it poured in freedom. She couldn't remember the last time anything tasted so good. The phone rang, a jangling caw, and she answered, impatient. "Yes?"
and he waited until he was absolutely certain that the night would take him into her arms, until the sea was ready for him, cool and calm and alllovelybreathingliquidair. He exhaled. "Yes"
and the phone fell down and she went to her knees and have thanks that this burden was lifted. "Port side," she smirked and filled the glass again.