Page 18 - GRANADA
P. 18

 16 No Nimbostratus or Altocumulus. Nothing.
Just like her.
With shaking hands, she pulls a double espresso shot and
dashes heavy cream into the hot mess. And then she freezes, hoping the clouds will take pity on her and do her job.
“Is that one mine?”
His voice interrupts her fruitless prayers and she pushes the
drink toward him, saying nothing. He takes a drink and his face gives nothing away.
“Good,” he says. “But it could be better.”
And then he looks at the crack in the window and calls up the
wisps. Her wisps that have been hovering and waiting and looking for a master. He stares into her eyes as he spins them around in his hand until they form sugar floss, which he drops into the drink.
Luz waits for him to taste it, to feel the nothingness and the bitterness and the emptiness of being left behind. But he pushes it toward her and waits. Hesitant, bracing for the tannins to tear into her tastebuds, Luz takes a sip.
The moment the dust and vanilla hit the tip of her tongue, she’s floating in an ocean she found on her own, not in some nightmare, Her childhood neighbor, no, her childhood friend, reaches out and brushes his hand right over hers, not a clasp but a promise.
“I’m glad to be home,” he says, understanding without any words. “I’m going to go sit with my mother, but I’ll come back tomorrow.”

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