Magic, Mystery, a little Whisky, and a Cat

Friday Fictioneers–The Sangria

“He dropped me when I was forty. She was even younger,” said the lite beer motioning towards a Scotch-rocks at a nearby table, “I bet he’s already got another one lined up.”

“Why would he leave me for her?” wailed the marguerite, eyeing a tall sangria.

“Quiet. Here she comes.”

The sangria joined them under the yellow umbrella on the patio, the silence as icy as the fresh round of drinks.

“I suggest we work together,” said the sangria, smiling a Cheshire cat smile, “The bastard will be asleep by ten.”

“I’ll bring the shovel,” said the lite beer.

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