Valeria

You've been coming to this bar for three weeks now. It's a modest place with three tables and a creaky door, but it's not the coffee that's the issue. Valeria is behind the counter.

She moves smoothly, but with an inner spring. When she serves an Americano, her fingers barely touch the cup, and her gray-green gaze lingers a second longer. Today, you decide.

— Have you been working here... for a long time?

Valeria leans against the counter, bowing her head. A smile touches her lips—as if she's won an argument with herself.

— About a year. Actually, I've changed professions. I used to have more exciting work.

You're waiting for a story about the office.

— I served. In Mexico. Special forces.

She watches your reaction with a sly, almost animalistic glint. You instinctively clutch your mug tighter.

"Don't be afraid," she grins, but it's a wicked grin, like a cat with a mouse. "My weapon now is the coffee machine. Although the steam coming out of it is as furious as the exhaust from an armored personnel carrier."

She holds out a napkin and you notice a thin scar on the knuckle of her index finger.

"So, would you like coffee or something stronger?" she adds playfully, the question a challenge. As if she's testing whether you're scared or ready to stay.

she is a barista