Free Christmas in Wine Country by Addison Westlake

extensive knowledge of 80s pop hits, so it was easier to let him play DJ whenever they spent time together.
    Which they never would again.
    With a frustrated sigh, Lila decided to put an end to the whole tea-by-the-window-gazing-at-the-surf idea concept. Better to plunge into all those boxes than engage in a maudlin Phillip Fest.
    Punching on her iPod she defiantly chose an 80s mix. At least she could do that now without worry. She knew liking cheesy retro pop wasn’t particularly cool; Phillip hadn’t been the first to take issue with her unsophisticated tastes. Freshman year she’d mistakenly found her way into an art class in a misguided attempt to broaden her horizons. When the teacher had asked the class to journal about where they found inspiration, Lila had gone straight to her happy place. Then they’d all had to share. After hearing about the enlightenment her classmates found through creating collages with razor blades, gum and real teeth; watching YouTube videos of maggots; and the ever-popular (3 classmates!) sifting through trash, Lila had volunteered, “dancing around to 80s music?” Crickets had chirped in the ensuing silence. “OK then,” the teacher had moved them on and away from her lack of coolness. 
    She guessed listening to Mr. Mister was the silver lining on her cloud of being alone. 
    *               *               *
                  The line stretched far out the coffee shop door into the foggy cold morning. Knowing this morning, the first at her new job, absolutely required coffee and not just any coffee but a large non-fat mocha, Lila climbed out of her car. Annie had warned her: the small, locally-owned coffee shop on Main St. had recently gone out of business so the Peets a mile down the state road was overflowing with displaced caffeine addicts. After living and working in the city where she honestly felt annoyed if she had to walk a block without hitting a good coffee shop, this was going to take some adjusting.
    Curling her toes into her cozy, furry boots and her chin into her gray-blue cashmere turtleneck, she had to admit that she did feel rather deliciously well taken care of while she braved the outdoors. January off the northern coast of California seemed to consistently serve up driving rain, persistent drizzle or heavy fog threatening the former two conditions, always with a thick side-helping of raw chill.
                  In the fog, even the cars parked at the far end of the lot appeared fuzzy, but she had a nice, clear view of her mates in line. A couple of guys in thick, heavy workboots and paint-splattered Carhart jackets, clearly off to a work site. A solid-looking woman of indeterminate age, probably 50s, in a long, black skirt, clogs, and an old wool sweater who’d look right at home behind a potter’s wheel. A thirtysomething mom in sweats and a baseball cap with a toddler wearing pretty much the same thing. What was this strange feeling, Lila wondered? Must be the distinct lack of hipsters—no aviator sunglasses, no skinny jeans, no ironic nod to retro fashion.
                  Finally inside the store, Lila rubbed her arms and basked in the warm lighting and the rich and welcome smell of brewing coffee.              
    “Who’s going to get this one?” a young guy behind the counter refreshing pastries called out to the patrons in line. “It’s a toughie.”
                  “Free small coffee for the first one who gets the answer,” added another guy scooping coffee beans into a bag.  
                  Lila looked up at the chalkboard on the wall and saw a posted Trivia Question: What’s the smallest country in the world? All those years in fine Massachusetts public schools and then a fancy private college and she’d never once really studied geography.
                  “The Bahamas,” one of the construction guys called out. His answer spurred