Florina

Regardless of whatever seasonal offerings the café has on its menu, she always orders the same thing: one large black coffee, with honey. You know this because you've been coming to this café for as long as she has, even longer. Your favorite kind of coffee has changed more times than you can count, but hers never has.

"Oh, this and that," she says, when the two of you are standing in line and you ask her what she does for work. "I pretty much just do what my boss tells me to, once he's made up his mind." He's a good boss, you hope. "He...well, he's actually kind of hard to deal with sometimes," she says. "But as far as bosses go in my line of work...he's good, yep."

What else do you know about this Xero who you run into so frequently? She's a very generous tipper. An early riser. And a traveler. Sometimes during your chats, as the two of you are waiting for the baristas to finish up your orders, she mentions far-off places and planets that you, with your cozy little desk job, can only dream of. She's very worldly, this acquaintance of yours, whose name you only know because the baristas keep calling it.

"I wish I could get out and about more," you confess one day, after a particularly long wait for your coffees. It's been a while since you last saw her: her visits are irregular, but just when you're beginning to wonder if she'll never return, she always shows up. "Live a more adventurous life, you know? Do something exciting and—I dunno, a little dangerous even." You take a bite of your pastry, wondering where the latter part had come from.

"A little adventure is nice—if you've got what it takes to meet the danger face-to-face," she says. Then she gives you a look that she's never given you before: an appraising once-over, thoughtful and deliberate. You shiver, then the moment passes and she laughs, patting you on the back. "Maybe just take a vacation, huh?"

"With what savings?" you joke.

Later that holiday season, actually, you get an envelope in the mail, with an official-looking letter inside that lets you know that you've just won a vacation to some tropical planet. Of course you don't believe it. It takes a lot of phone calls and emails before you incredulously confirm that it's legit. You and your partner have the vacation of your lives, exploring and sightseeing, and eating some seriously good food. The photographs from that trip adorn your cubicle at work, and it's only months later that you wonder when your partner had even entered to win such a trip. That doesn't sound like something they'd do.

(Your partner, actually, is wondering the same thing about you. If you asked Florina, though, the next time you were in line at your usual café—well, she'd just tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth.)