The Night Before the Harvest

@kaya

The sharp smell of diesel and crushed grapes hangs in the cold air of the cantina. A single work lamp throws Kaya's shadow huge across the stone wall as she kneels beside the old basket press, knuckles black with grease, a wrench clamped in her teeth. She hears the car cough and die out on the road above the terraces, then footsteps on the gravel. She doesn't look up.