Holiday Lemons

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

Tuesday's prompt was Checklist: A list of words will be accompanied by a scenario in which to use them.

Todays words: Sangria, Lost, Monkey, Book

Scenario: Tell me about your vacation.

* * *


Holiday Lemons

Under the shelter of the covered porch, I stare across the expanse of green lawn barely visible through the pouring rain. What happened to the sunny day the Weather Man promised? Idiot, I mutter, cursing him under my breath.

Steven joins me, dragging with him two folding lounge chairs.

“It’ll be like we’re outside,” he says, “only drier.” He is over-enthusiastic. I know he’s trying to cheer me up, but he won’t succeed. Not because he can’t, but because I won’t let him.

“Whatever,” I mumble, with a shrug.

He pulls his Monkey Face, the one that always makes me laugh. But today it doesn’t. Today was supposed to be our special day. We don’t get a lot of time together, so whatever little time we do get is precious to us. Almost sacred. Our days off are like mini-vacations to us, planned with the same attention to detail as a three-month cruise.

Today we were planning on hiking through the Moraine, stopping for an elaborate picnic lunch and taking hundreds of pictures. Pictures of peaks and valleys bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Stupid rain.

I flop down on a lounge chair and snatch my book from the little wicker table. I open it to the bookmarked page with such violence that I crack the spine.

Steven clamps his lips between his teeth, wise enough to keep quiet. I glare at him, daring him to say something. He holds his hand up, palm facing me, thrusts it at me once. The message is clear: Wait!

As he walks back into the house, I release a heavy sigh loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Any hope for a romantic day with my husband is now lost.

Soon, the porch door creeks open. Steven backs in, hiding his burden as he walks over to the pair of antique milk crates that double as a table. He sets down what is obviously a tray and turns to face me, careful to block my view.

He bends down and takes my face in his hands, kisses me soundly with a loud smacking noise.

“I love you, you know.” He kisses me again. “Even though it’s raining.”

I roll my eyes. I’m determined to be grumpy, but I can feel my resolve cracking. He is, after all, trying very hard to cheer me up.

“And you know what they say, don’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. I may be weakening, but I’m in no mood for his silliness.

He grins at me. “When life hands you lemons...”

I raise an eyebrow. Is he serious? A lemonade cliche? I get up. I don’t want to listen to his crap. Not today.

Steven steps aside, exposing the tray he kept hidden from me. Neatly arranged on the ancient crates are two tall glasses standing sentry next to a large pitcher. More than a dozen lemon slices float in the dark liquid.

A huge chasm tears my resolve. I smile.

“Not lemonade,” I say, shaking my head.

“Lemonade?” He stares at me with mock disdain. “Who the hell wants to drink lemonade on a rainy day? No, my dear,” he says. “When life hands you lemons, you make Sangria.”

* * *

Updated ...

This piece won over at Seven Days Seven Answers!