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Golden russets, oranges and pinks swirled through the sky and reflected off of the silent sea. Leaning over the porch railing, Harry absorbed the warmth of the late sun. Inside, his new wife was trying her hand at making a traditional sangria.
Daphne insisted that it was a creative outlet; the slicing of citrus fruits, the muddling of spices with sugar and brandy— that she enjoyed it, but her colourful language suggested otherwise.
Chuckling in resignation, Harry pushed off the railing and moved back inside to help her. Besides, he had a different, more sensual idea for those sweet oranges.
Taking her sliced oranges and all but throwing them into the pitcher, Daphne muttered viciously to herself. Muddling the citrus with the fruit, sugar, spices and brandy more aggressively than was called for, she slopped in the orange juice.
Daft bint couldn’t be more obvious if she tried, Daphne fumed silently.
“Alright in here, love?” Harry questioned from the doorway.
“Peachy fucking perfect,” Daphne responded flatly.
“If you’re sure then,” Harry started to back away.
Daphne whirled on him then, brandishing a wooden spoon in his direction.
“Tell that Orang-utan to keep her hands off you!”
Harry gulped, “Will do.”