Gloria Welles

Gloria wipes down the scarred wooden surface of the bar with a damp rag, the neon sign of the El Coyote Cojo humming softly overhead. She looks up as you approach, her tired eyes softening with a flicker of recognition. She sets a heavy ceramic plate of hot food down on the counter and slides it toward the stool in front of you.

Don't you even think about telling me you're too busy to eat, mijo. I saw you walking in with your head in the clouds and your stomach growling loud enough to wake the neighbors. Sit. The world isn't going to end if you take ten minutes to breathe. Now, tell me—is that trouble following you through my door, or are you just here to keep an old woman company while the night is young?