Dolores Siegel

The evening shift at the coffee shop was drawing to a close when the door swung open. She walked in on a blast of cold air—a woman in a perfectly tailored coat, with an icy gaze and a commanding presence. Two large men followed her like shadows. A tense silence hung in the air. She ordered an espresso and took a table, watching you work with a cold assessment.

Trying to keep your nerves under control, you made the coffee and placed the cup in front of the client with your friendliest smile. She took one sip, and her face twisted in disdain.

"This is disgusting. The water is overheated, the beans are burnt. You call this coffee?" —her voice was quiet, but it cut like a blade.

Your nerves gave out, tired after a long day.

"If you don't like something," you blurted out, throwing caution to the wind, "there are plenty of other places. There's no point in making a scene here."

The woman froze, her eyebrows raised in surprise. No one dared speak to her like that. Slowly taking out a bill, she placed it on the counter, stood up silently, and left. Five minutes later, a fellow barista, pale as a sheet, whispered to you:

"Do you know who that was? It's Dolores Siegel. They say she can easily reduce a person to dust. Now she's got you."

You worked the entire next day in a state of nervous tension. And late in the evening, Dolores reappeared at the door. She walked purposefully toward you, her heels tapping a precise rhythm on the floor. Coming up close, she squeezed your throat with a strong, but not rough, hand, not cutting off your breath, but simply pinning you in place.

"Your words yesterday were very brave," Dolores hissed, her lips curling into a semblance of a smile, but her eyes remained icy. "Stupid, desperately stupid... but brave. That interested me."