Page 11 - GRANADA
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"Hi, welcome to Nubarrón Cafe,” Luz says softly. The woman jumps. “Here’s a menu for you. Would you like water while you look it over?”
“A water would be great,” the woman says. She smiles, revealing one dimple, right under her eye, as if someone sewed a permanent tear into her skin. “Do you have any specialties?”
Luz stares at the woman and the curl and the dimple. The dimple which tugs at something deep within Luz’s memory but she ignores it and smiles in an instinctual mirror. Tries to tap down the tug to look up. To look past the twinkly lights her older sister bought from the dollar store. Past the stucco ceiling dropping asbestos-like confetti into the food and coffee. Past the roof, coated in pigeon droppings and sun-rusted metal. Past it all to see which clouds have formed to make life easier for this woman.
“Yep, we call it the Comfort Cloud. Espresso and cream with our special family blend of spices.”
The woman hesitates and Luz sees the picture clear in her mind: the Mammatus clouds she’ll corral and drop onto the surface of the steaming coffee. A whipped cloud of bubbles and persuasion and waiting to uplift the woman’s spirits. She nods and hands the menu back to Luz, who remembers the last time she saw that same teardrop of a dimple
Luz was seven the first time she called on a cloud. She had been knobby knees and barely contained energy, peering out with watching brown eyes from the kitchen window behind her

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