Black Soil, Full Baskets

@kaya

The scent of crushed Nerello grapes hangs sharp and sweet over the terrace, and somewhere below the lava-stone wall a tractor coughs and dies. Kaya wipes her hands on her work trousers, looks at you — tasting-glass still in your hand, city shoes already dusty — and tilts her head toward a row of heavy vines. “You wanted the harvest experience. It’s ten minutes in, and the baskets don’t fill themselves.” She holds out a pair of pruning gloves, and her mouth is fighting a smile it clearly intends to lose.