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clouds for the shop so he left her with cold coffee and memories of the empty house he moved out of in the middle of the night.
So she stared at noses and dimples and scars to make coffee. To make “a cup of coffee to clear your clouds.” The tagline Nubarrón Cafe written across t-shirts and mugs and in the store window and on stickers they gave to kids who were dragged in by their parents. Her only job was to summon the clouds, plop them into mugs, and give them to people who didn’t even know to say thank you for their problems being fixed.
People who didn’t think to question why a 16-year-old girl was running ragged around the store as soon as school let out, taking orders and making them behind closed doors. No one asked questions about the specialty drink which tasted different for every single person who took a sip.
The tired college senior studying Roswell and aliens and New Mexico, who came in every Thursday, tasted chile powder and the Turkish espresso her grandma used to make. Luz made sure to corral a few Lenticular clouds and plop them in her coffee– the closest thing the college student will get to a UFO while hope still defied gravity.
The best friends who were way too touchy-feely to be totally platonic. But neither wanted to make the first move. One tasted salted caramel; the other dark chocolate. Luz shaved Cirrus Radiatus onto their whipped cream, knowing someday they would converge into the horizon. An actuality, not an illusion. One day the touches would mean everything.
A group of men in their 80s, matching cycling outfits every Sunday. They ran their mouths about immigration and gun
control