Bruja

⠀↳⠀2.11

( S e v e n t e e n )

"So, what is this again?"

"It's a torta de carne asada," Maria answered while unwrapping the foil. "It's steak and kind of messy, so be careful. Oh, and because I asked them to cut it in half, tiny bits of foil might be on the edges. I usually pick those out because the thought of swallowing foil just does not sit right with me, even if it's teeny-tiny."

She wasn't kidding. There were pieces on the bread and a few on the meat, but those were easily picked out.

For the first time, he was comfortable not to wear his gloves in front of her. The last time they were alone, he only had one on until she was out of sight and went to sleep. After what happened between them and his arm, he felt comfortable enough to have it in her view with his sleeves rolled up confidently. She didn't judge him; she helped him grow to be secure in his own skin.

"This is my favorite. If I have to eat only one thing for the rest of my life, it would definitely be a torta." She sipped out of a straw from a styrofoam cup containing a deep red, iced liquid. "And drink agua de Jamaica. These two can never disappoint."

"Ha-MY-cah," he repeated the word the way she pronounced it.

"Mhm. J-A-M-A-I-C-A."

"So, spelled like the country, just pronounced differently?"

She paused mid-chew and looked out of the corner of her eye into an invisible camera like a sitcom. "Yes." She finished chewing and wiped her lips with a napkin before speaking, "Call it the Spanish pronunciation. But this right here," she pointed at the drink, "is basically hibiscus tea. Not everyone knows how to make it."

"How so?" he decided to ask.

"While everyone is entitled to a preference, like having it sweet, bitter, watery, or hot, I like mine between bitter and sweet and served cold. The same goes for a torta: not everyone knows how to make it." Her face scrunched at a memory popping into her head of a bad experience with an improperly made one. She savored the one she was eating, thankful the torta was nothing compared to that.

He covered his mouth to hide a laugh only to end up coughing instead, almost choking. "I'm sorry," he took a few quick sips from the styrofoam cup filled with the same delicious liquid to bring the food down, "but you look like you just remembered something traumatic." He cleared his throat.

A quick smile managed to break out of her at his reaction, a sight she wasn't used to seeing. She found it pleasant to see him genuinely positive, even if it was at her misery.

"I did." She wiped her hands and rolled her eyes. "This one time I went to this supposed 'authentic' Mexican restaurant in Chicago"—air quotes around authentic—"I ordered a torta. I didn't enjoy eating it. The guacamole was a funny shade of green, almost like someone dyed it with food coloring. I know that was a red flag, but I was hungry and I wasn't going to waste it. Anyway, when I got to where I was staying at the time, I started feeling sick. I felt like the room was spinning, I was sweating, and then I was constantly throwing up. It turns out I had food poisoning."

"Ouch," he cringed. "Food poisoning from eating one of your favorite foods. That's a different type of betrayal right there."

"Uh, yeah. No, I was so scared to eat anything after that. I only drank water for the rest of the day, and because it was an internal issue and not an external one, I was back to normal in no time."

He pointed his half-eaten torta to her. "Well, at least you weren't traumatized for too long."

"Exactly. Perks of being a healer." She wiggled her shoulders, earning a snort from him.