Dementia

The cold seeped into my back. I was lying in a wine cellar.
I had no idea why.
An empty, dust shrouded bottle kissed my knuckles.
An older man lay naked nearby, grinning.
Dressed only in goosebumps, I wielded the heavy bottle. "Stay back."
"Not now," he groaned. "It's me, David. Your husband."
"I'm not married."
His face filled with sorrow, then resolve. "Look." He reached out.
I swung. Glass scattered the floor.
He stuttered, collapsed.
Then I saw my hands, wrinkled and veined, a wedding ring hanging on my finger. 40 years came rushing back.
What had I done?