The Cider House – Part 1: The High Pour

"Higher," said Diego. "Arm up. Don't look at the glass, look at the stream."

"I'm going to miss."

"You are going to miss. Everyone misses. Pour."

Alba, thirty-one, a food photographer from Madrid, lifted the green bottle over her head and tipped. A thin golden stream arced through the air and landed, mostly, on Diego's boots. The glass in her other hand was nearly empty. The cellar roared with laughter.

"That," said Diego, "was the best first attempt I have seen all year."

"You're lying."

"Only a little."

The cider house sat in a green valley in Asturias, a long stone building with wooden barrels, a smoking grill and a long table crowded with locals. Rain tapped on the roof. The air smelled of apples, woodsmoke and grilled chorizo. Diego, thirty-five, the owner, was dark-haired and broad-shouldered, with an easy laugh and apple-stained fingers. He had been showing her the ropes since the photo shoot began, steering her out of the way of splashes and teaching her which cheese to have with which cider.

She took pictures all afternoon. Barrels, hands, the golden arc of the pour. By evening, when the crowd thinned, the camera hung forgotten around her neck.

"You haven't taken a picture in an hour," said Diego.

"I know."

"What are you looking at instead?"

Alba hesitated, then smiled. "You."

He went very still, a glass in his hand. "May I come around the table?"

"Please do."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Barrel.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Barrel.