It was a slight—he recognised that. And this merited anger, even reprisal.
The afternoon continued lazy—wind ruffling the grass like a stroked dog, the insects’ bass and the birds’ trill stitching a pattern into the dome of the sky.
Wrath filled his glass, and he drank. Was her offence sufficient for an hour’s rejection? Or a screeching, door-slamming walkout? In the drowse and the piercing sunshine, it felt hard to calibrate. A slick bead of sweat licked his chest.
He couldn’t afford to lose her. That much was certain. So, a bit of a sulk, probably, then flowers.