She was absent-mindedly stirring her coffee, engrossed in the music playing in her earbuds, and enjoying the brief respite from the crowds at MostCon - the ultimate North American sci-fi/fantasy convention. It was pure luck finding this remote exhibitors’ hospitality room in the quietest area of the Con, tucked away in the least populated overflow corner of the exhibit floor. The perfect place to escape from the three floors of avid, some might say rabid, most often costumed Con attendees. Every space filled by the crowds of loyal fans who all wanted a piece of something or someone to remember their Con by.

The light touch on the back of her elbow made her jump. She had not heard the door. The spoon went flying, and her left hand steadied the sloshing coffee cup. Right hand yanked the earbuds by their cords from her ears as she turned to see who had disturbed her peace.

Tall. Broad-shouldered but not muscular. Black jeans and a black hoodie with the hood up, but not drawn tight around his face, and mirrored sunglasses. He was already taking several steps back, his hands up palms out, the universal gesture of surrender, his mouth forming a tentative half-smile that was intended to declare himself as no threat to her in this isolated room.

“I am so very sorry to have startled you. I did say hello when I came in, then um, saw the white cord and realized you had earbuds in.” His flat midwestern accent both sounded familiar and not quite right, “I truly did not mean to um, sneak up on you unawares and give you a fright.”

“No worries. Just some spilled coffee and a flying spoon.” She smiled with the impersonal smile of front-line workers everywhere as she spoke, hoping it would somewhat warm the surge of icy adrenalin she felt from being surprised. She turned back to the counter, grabbed some paper towels to mop up the coffee, and saw that the spoon had somehow landed in the sink. She turned off her phone, detached the earbuds, and stuck both into her pocket, regretting that the cord would likely tangle on itself.

She had noticed the top corner of his Con credentials sticking out of the front pouch pocket of his hoodie, lanyard dangling. The wide purple bar at the top of the ID tag signified “VIP Speaker/Panel Participant” - the highest echelon of Con attendees. So - a somebody slumming as a nobody in the most deserted and remote corner of the Con, his name and photo carefully tucked out of sight.

“No dire coffee casualty, then. And so sorry for frightening you. It was not at all my intention to cause you distress.” American voice, but not quite American speech patterns.

Whatever. She'd met enough celebrities of all kinds to not care if he was a Con star. They are just people doing a job, and 99% of the time, meeting the person behind the public personality destroyed the mystique and spoiled any sense of fan-love or respect she may have had. So how does that poem start? “It doesn't interest me what you do for a living...” Essential to remember when meeting your heroes. Feet of clay, all of them. Walking egos, and too often, if male, more than slightly predatory. But, at least his apology seemed genuine.

“I was just looking for a place to hide away for a bit and maybe have a quiet cuppa tea. Do you know if they have tea makings, or is it all soda and coffee and bottled water?”

Cuppa. What a beautifully revealing English word. No matter how hard he tried to sound American, only a Brit or a Scot would say “cuppa tea” with that particular inflection. It stirred a distant memory of a panel interview on a late-night talk show. She knew who he was. After all, if it's four p.m. somewhere, then it's tea-time for the English.