Again, that blasted number. It was a siren wailing in my head as a numbered reminder, because of course I was the fool who couldn’t finalise anything without the help of others. Once more, I reminded myself I had a tenacity I never used to possess, though by this point, I would’ve agreed to almost anything he asked just to get him to sign my paperwork.
Reefing my jeans up, and regretting my decision not to wear a belt, I walked around the empty reception area, scanning as much of my surroundings as possible. Frustratingly, there were too many aisles to currently count, each holding rows of oak barrels. The perfect symmetry disrupted only by visual blemishes indicating what I assumed was age. I wanted to run my fingers over the scuffed metal hoops. To lean in and smell the oak beneath the sweet, boozy vapour dusting the air. To make sense of the soft chalk markings on the wood, reflecting something I currently knew nothing about.
Mostly, I wanted to count every single crate of aging spirit. To understand the etymology of their names.
Solstice Mist: Foundation Label
The Protector’s Pour: Love, like whiskey, burns slowly
52225 Reserve: Transcendence
I snapped a quick photo, desperate for more time, as soft voices emanated from the far corner, drawing my attention. A group of men stood around some kind of large machine, the tapping of metal on metal, sporadic yet shrill.
“Hi there,” I greeted, and all four heads whipped around at the sound of my voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Cooper.”
Two of the men turned back to whatever it was they were doing, while a third watched on curiously as the youngest gentleman in the group stepped forward.
“Argh, sure.” His hesitation made my nerves increase, already worried I was an inconvenience. “I’m Grant,” he said, as he guided me around the copper monstrosity and through another labyrinth of aging products. “We didn’t hear you arrive.”
“Sorry, there was no one at the front desk. I did ring the buzzer, but I don’t know if it worked.”
“Oh, I’ll look. We don’t usually get visitors like yourself around here,” he added under his breath.
“Visitors like me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Under fifty,” he joked.
“Oh.” Unsure what else to say, I smiled. “I’m Evangeline by the way. Probably should have started with that.”
“Nice to meet you.” His gaze followed me more than where we were walking, and I wanted to ask questions about the place. Instead, I focused on taking in as much of my surroundings as possible, playing mental maths as a distraction.
Each aisle held barrels four deep - of course - that number always my shadow. The air hummed around us and other than a constant dripping sound and an occasional shrill beep, we walked in silence for most of the way.
I hated social situations like this. Times where I feltuncomfortable under the assessment of someone new and desperate to fill the quiet space with random thoughts.
“So, you work here?”
No, Eva, he just hangs around offering tours. Ugh I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
“Sure do. I’m the main Still Operator at Spades. And I do compliance. Bit of a number guy.” This piqued my interest. Common ground.
“Me too.” My smile was genuine, the comfort of numbers settling into my bones. Although the name Grant had five letters - odd - which didn’t sit well. Was it too soon to ask him his surname and see if I could even it out a little?
“What does a Still Operator do around here?” I asked instead.
“My job is to make sure the distillation process runs smoothly. Monitor the temperatures, check the purity of the product.”
