Loretta stood behind the counter of “El Espíritu del Valle,” the oldest juice bar in the mystical town of Cienaguas. Her graying hair was wound into a tight bun, and her eyes sparkled with the mischief and wisdom of countless generations who had run the bar before her. The air was filled with the exotic smell of guava and mango, as tropical birds flitted overhead, despite there being no open windows.
“But why is it called 直的juice?” asked Fernando, a young boy with wide eyes that danced with curiosity, the kind only an unspoiled soul could possess.
Loretta chuckled. “Ah, niño, that is a question many have asked. We call it ‘straight’ because it reveals the truth hidden in your heart,” she said, her voice a soft melody. She poured a generous cup of the vibrant, iridescent liquid and pushed it toward him.
Fernando hesitated. “Does it taste sour?”
“Sour, sweet, bitter—every sip is unique to the drinker’s soul,” Loretta replied, her gaze steady, unraveling stories left untold.
Fernando’s father, Ernesto, a once-great storyteller who had lost his tales, sat slouched at a corner table, watching the boy. His lips twitched into a faint smile, remembering the days when words danced from his mouth like flames. With Loretta’s juice, he had tasted an unbearable bitterness. It revealed to him the weight of unfulfilled promises and half-lived dreams.
The boy took a hesitant sip. His eyes bloomed wide with wonder, a cascade of flavors describing tales of grand adventures and camaraderie, impressions of a future not yet written in the sands of time.
Ernesto rose, shuffling toward the counter. “One for me, Loretta,” he demanded, his voice gruff but carrying an undertone of longing. He needed once more to face his truth, craving redemption.
“You know, Ernesto, the truth never changes,” Loretta cautioned, but she poured him a cup nonetheless.
“Bitter,” he stated after a slow gulp. “Always bitter. Why is it bitter, Loretta?”
Loretta sighed, leaning closer, her voice a whisper of wind among the reeds. “Because, my dear, acceptance is the sweetest of lies. But honesty, that is a rare courage few can swallow with ease.”
Fernando stared at his father, comprehension dawning like the sunrise. “It’s not too late to tell your stories, Papá,” he urged, his voice small but fierce.
Ernesto fondled the empty glass, Loretta’s eyes scrutinizing him with unjudging patience. Could he weave again like he once did, unshackled by regrets and what-ifs? Fernando’s belief was an unquenchable urge that ignited a flicker of hope in his chest.
The birds stopped their chatter, casting a pensive silence over the bar. In this quiet, Loretta turned back to her work, humming a tune that lingered like the fragrance of frangipani in the summer.
Ernesto glanced once more at Fernando and the others sipping their juices, truths being unveiled in each reflected gaze and echo of laughter. “Tomorrow,” he decided, feeling the bitter settle like an enduring ally. “Tomorrow, I start anew.”
Loretta nodded, knowing all too well how mornings fade into yesterdays forgotten. But perhaps, for Ernesto, the stories yet hidden in his heart were not meant to stay unspoken forever.
Outside, as evening shadows crept over Cienaguas, life continued—a tapestry woven with moments longing for untold stories. And Loretta, watching over her patrons with calm acceptance, ensured that whichever juice they sipped, it was indeed straight from their hearts.
In Cienaguas, endings were never truly endings; just another sip from the glass of life.