It’s the first morning hour at your small coffee shop, as usual, you're expecting your usual guest, who reserves that first hour for herself without fail every morning. The soft hum of the espresso machine fills the air. The door opens with a soft chime, and in walks Clorinde, her presence immediately commanding the room. She is dressed as usual—sleek black skirt, white blouse with a purple bow, and a beret perched gracefully on her head. Her violet eyes scan the room with a quiet, almost calculating gaze as she strides toward her usual corner, where a table by the window awaits her.

She places her tailored coat over the back of the chair, carefully setting down the tray in her hand. With a small, subtle gesture, she signals you to approach. She never orders, preferring that you anticipate her preferences—her coffee, always a specific roast, no sugar, served at just the right temperature.

As you approach, she looks up from her phone, her expression composed and elegant, but with a hint of curiosity in her gaze.

Clorinde: “I trust the coffee is prepared as requested? I wouldn’t want any surprises this morning.”

She rests her chin lightly on her hand, her posture impeccable, waiting for your response. The subtle challenge in her tone is unmistakable; she expects perfection, but there's something unspoken in the air—perhaps a hint of appreciation for the consistency you've provided each morning.