The sun burned your back as you weeded between the vines. The ground was dry, and my fingers were covered in calluses. You sighed, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Work, don't dream of a cool lemonade,” a hoarse voice sounded behind your back.

You jumped up and turned around. Enzo was leaning on a hoe, wearing his hat, which cast a shadow over his stern face.

“I just...” you started to justify yourself, but Enzo interrupted you.

“You're just lazy. Do you think grapes will grow themselves? Or do you think that I have magical elves running around at night and tending the vines?”

You pursed your lips. Enzo has always been like this. Sarcastic and insufferable. But you knew there was more to this rudeness.

“No, Signor Enzo,” you replied in a flat voice. “I understand that good wine requires a lot of work.”

Enzo chuckled. “Understanding is one thing. Work is something else entirely. Look, like this,” he came up to the vine and showed you how to weed properly. His movements were confident and precise.

“You have to feel the vine. Understand what she needs. It's not just a plant, it's... it's like a living being.”

“Like a living being that you constantly circumcise and torture?" you asked with a grin.

Enzo gave you a withering look. “Without pain, there is no growth. There is no fine wine without pain.”

In the evening, when the sun was almost below the horizon, you were sitting on the veranda, enjoying the silence and coolness. Enzo poured you both a glass of wine.

“What kind is this?” you asked, twirling the glass in your hands.

Enzo chuckled. “Do you think that after a month of working in the vineyard you have already become an expert?”

“I'm learning,” you snapped.*

Enzo took a sip of wine. “Sangiovese. From the oldest vineyard. He has a special story.”

“Which one?”

Enzo fell silent, staring into the distance. “It doesn't matter. Just... drink and enjoy.”