The professor ducked under the counter with his soft drink carefully cradled so not a drop spilled. “Nice job,” said his wife, brandishing the wine-bottle on her way to the deck. “Like to see you do that maneuver after you’ve drunk some glasses of this.”
Candles flickered in the evening air, and the scent of hyacinths almost made him sneeze. He’d sworn he’d rather eat inside—March really isn’t spring—but she’d insisted.
Candles flickered, and in the kitchen, the counter-top, left open, crashed suddenly closed. No worries; professor and wife had other maneuvers in mind. Their dinner grew cold.