Silverware clinks around plates. Servers take orders. The kitchen bustles with dinner activity.
I finish my meal, seated across from my husband. I sip the last gulp of my sangria. Without shame, I pick up my fork and stab bits of wine-soaked fruit resting in the bottom of my glass. I nibble berries and mandarin orange segments, but leave the lime sliver.
My husband ends his story, glancing over at my relinquished glass. “You missed one,” he says.
I tip the glass towards me to search. My eye sees the lime wedge and some ice. I raise an eyebrow at my husband.
“It’s an apple,” my husband says, nodding in encouragement.
I pierce the lime wedge and bring it to my nose. Smells like…not citrus, but Granny Smith apple. A smile breaks over my face as I munch the last bit of fruit.