She knows what she's doing. With Mission Impossible-esque precision, she maneuvers through the Tree House Brewing Company crowd to purchase her beer. Effective. Stealthy. Efficient.
After depositing her haul in the car, I spot her near the merch. Like a stock broker, she’s on the phone, relaying colors and sizes to someone on the other end. Suddenly she spins around, shaking her head as she hangs up.
“Ugh, I’m taking t-shirt orders. Everyone got socks in their stocking for Christmas last year. But they don’t always have them!”
I don’t think the comment's intended for me—or maybe for anyone. She just needs the universe to know that her timetable has been jeopardized.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow and responds confidently, “Well, I’ll come more now that the limits are higher.”
I don't catch her name, but I know I'll see her at the next release.
