Bittersweet

Chapter Five: The Work

"Give me an A plus, Daddy."

"Don't call me daddy," I mumble, marking feedback on a tablet. "That's an HR nightmare. Did Wylie let you call him that?"

"No." The green-haired, tattooed Imaginator watches my lips. "But he wasn't such a daddy, Daddy."

I roll my eyes.

Stepping down the thin, sterile table with 15-or-so caramel samples on petri dishes, I take the next caramel and pop it into my mouth, rolling it over my tongue to taste the delicate flavors. "Burnt. A sour aftertaste." I chew. "But still pleasant. Lemony flavor. Far too much crystallization."

A tired Indian college drop-out shrugs. "We tried freeze-boiling. It would free up two of the furnaces."

"Effects aren't quite up to standard, but it's not too bad. It would be passable in WylieBites." I wipe my mouth with a silk handkerchief. "We should only use it if we're pressed for space." I flick notes into my tablet. "Create a WylieBite with a thin layer of low-grade milk and send it off to focus groups." I take a sip of seltzer before moving on. "Mm. Jamaican cane sugar. And. That's not. Hmm. Is that black volcanic salt?"

Harriet nods, proud of herself. (Of course it's Harriet's. It's the best one here.)

I lick my lips. "It's silky, well-rounded – but the salt would up the price."

Harriet's devilish grin widens. "This is filler for the high-grade Wylie's Finest Dark bars. To lower the cost while upping the bougie."

I shake my head, snapping my fingers. "You're a fucking genius, Harriet."

She grins.

Frederickson leans in, mumbling, "Sir, I'm getting a call from Panama. He says it's urgent."

I snap a look at him.

Harriet stomps, pointing. "You only have one fucking left, Tender. Stuff it in your piehole before you leave us."

"It's Panama, Harriet. Freddie, set up a call in 5 minutes."

Nevertheless, I pick up the next caramel and pop it into my mouth.

At first, bland. Ordinary caramel that I've had thousands of times. But then, like a library with a secret back room, the flavor deepens. Soft, Mozart-like music taps dusty grand pianos – anise seed and culture, vanilla and doves wings, orange and the worldly excesses of 18th century gilded opera houses roll across my tongue. I slam my hand on the table, squaring my jaw as I chew, to stare down the woman who made this candy.

She has blue hair, one side of her head shaven, the shirt under her lab coat an emo-goth band. She folds her hands in front of her black-lipsticked mouth, mascara cried away in streaks.

"If you think you can get into my good graces ..." I have to stop. And chew. My eyes roll back in delight. I try to swallow my flush. "... by being a brown-noser, you have another thing coming, newbie. Making a caramel taste like black tart-tarts." I tut-tut, shaking my head as I consult my tablet.

Her watery eyes fill up. But she breaks out into a little dance when I give her an A+ on her scorecard, hopping. I lean in to give her a handshake. "From one of the worst candies I've had in years." I firm my grip on her soft hand. "To one of the best. What the heck, newbie?"

She surely says something, but it's a high-pitched warble of indiscriminate noises with "make you proud" thrown in.

Harriet lifts her chin in victory. I tut at her.

As I leave, I hear one of the others whisper, "He never gives out handshakes!"

🍭