Punch
My wife, I'm proud to say, is known for her sangria. Each afternoon, the neighbors gather on our patio, eagerly awaiting the day's meticulously prepared pitcher, graced with hand-cut slices of fresh fruit. I've heard them talk amongst themselves, trying to deduce her secret ingredient. It's something viscous and slightly metallic that cuts the sweetness of the sugar, they say. I'd ask the cook, but he disappeared the afternoon of the summer solstice, when we began entertaining in earnest. If only the gardener could join us. A good guy, but my wife found him to be a bit too handsy.
Originally published in Flash Phantoms, July 1, 2025
Comments
Post a Comment