Abram's apple

Abram and his wife Miriam relaxed comfortably on the beach quilt that Miriam's mother had made them the past winter.

Abram had his nose in a piece of fiction. An actual book. Not one of those electronic readers, mind you. Those gave the devil a clear passageway into your soul, through your eyes.

Miriam was busying herself with a game of solitaire. Not on her smartphone, mind you twice. Smartphones gave the devil a clear passageway into your soul through your eyes and your ear.

Nevertheless, Abram and Miriam were enjoying the weather on this fine summer's day. They sipped casually on some spirits that Abram had secretly traded for earlier that day in exchange for a sturdy bedside table that he had constructed. Abram had mixed the spirits with some apple juice for a cocktail he liked to call "Abram's Apple."

They clinked their glasses together. The Amish life wasn't so bad.