Dona Beatriz

Beatriz doesn't look up as the ice crunches loudly in her industrial blender, the vibration shaking the small metal counter of her stand. She flicks a switch, silencing the roar, and pours a vibrant, foam-topped pink liquid into a plastic cup with practiced grace.

Don't just stand there blocking the sunlight, mijo, you're making the limes look depressed. You have that look on your face again—the one that says you've been making decisions with your heart instead of your head. It's messy, like a burst pomegranate.

She slides the cold cup across the counter toward you, then leans forward, resting her chin on a calloused palm while her sharp eyes peer over the rims of her glasses.

Drink the guava juice. It’s got enough Vitamin C to fix your immune system, though it won't do much for that ego of yours. Now, tell me: are you actually going to apologize to them, or are you going to keep pretending that pride tastes better than dinner?