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control and that damn President and everything in between. Luz made sure they tasted cinnamon when she rolled up Morning Glory clouds and dropped them in their coffees. Maybe then they’d finally simmer and understand words meant nothing if they just kept looping their bikes around the block.
Different people came in needing different clouds. But she never had a chance to ask her Tío how to summon a cloud for herself before he left. How to make it taste sweet or seeped or soft. Because as much as she tried to call the clouds for herself, nothing happened. She stared at her nose for hours in the bathroom mirror. Nothing. She moved on to her ears. Her eyelashes. The ear piercings she got as a baby. Anything to show herself what she needed.
Sometimes, after hours of staring into her eyes, she’d get wisps. Barely there, barely visible, and they wouldn’t materialize enough for her to manipulate them. Never enough to get in the coffee cup. Never enough to figure out an actual answer.
So, when her parents asked her once what she tasted, she blurted out dust and vanilla bean and left the room. She couldn’t bear to tell them that all she tasted was bitterness and being left behind.
Luz places the cup of coffee down lightly in front of the woman, who beams up at her politely. She waits for the nod or wonder or something when the woman takes the first sip. But before Luz gets satisfaction for her work, the woman’s phone rings. The Star Wars theme song cuts the tension and she answers hurriedly, speaking French with the Spanish name of the