Perhaps if such a thing as love existed so powerfully in human form, I believe I would demand they answer me this.
If love was the worst and best feeling and a broken heart wasn't even a feeling, but more of an initiation everyone went through, then what exactly could that mean about someone having gone through it more times than should be counted? Other than being extremely gullible, I had to find that it had something to do with absolute emptiness. A hole darker than the deepest ditch and wider than the craters on the moon, something closer to the heart yet farther than a person could reach. Something I obviously didn't know a drop about.
It happened to also be a question for four girls(my sisters, in fact) apparently trying to find a road that they should realize by now leads to a cliff higher and steeper than the Sears tower when it came to something like this, because they were probably the most empty of all sorts. And although I always asked it and left it in the air for a long enough time to be solved, it was never answered. I doubt it will be, since even the brightest of geniuses don't seem to know much about love either (how complicated could it be anyway compared to Physics?), but I hate most unanswerable questions because I know I won't find an answer soon enough.
That's why I decided on something one night that would probably make me insane or absolutely immune to this...this--thing. This disease called...whatever it was that made people go so lame and opposite.
It began during a productive dinner at a Mexican bar my sisters loved dragging me along to, bearing witness for them or something or other. I really didn't like it. During the hot days flies flew all over like planes on a runway and the bartender had tendencies to glare at everyone except my sisters, and in the most incorrect ways possible. Any other day was a crowded one, with men always sidling on by like my sisters were the sole women on earth that would satisfy their needs as males. It was hard to find a distraction from such deeds because many of the things with a plug except the lights didn't work, the food wasn't something to jump about, and the normal reaction of witnessing a man hit on a close relative tended to kick in. This night wasn't exactly original either. There was the same nameless but troubling bartender and the same troupe of men around my sisters and the same me not in it. There was also the same yearning to be old enough to drink so I wouldn't have to really 'be there'. Not much had changed.
Except when the bells above the wooden door clanged and caused a few people to look, such as myself. When I did, I almost smiled. It was either pure salvation or hearty amusement that had come.
He had started by looking around with vague but obvious curiosity at such a structure, at what exactly was keeping such a place from collapsing under the floors above it. I couldn't blame him; I did the same pondering the first time I walked in. The place, called Abajo del Botella (bottom of the bottle) had a certain air to it that made a person who would first walk in think 'what's holding it together?', with walls of wood that seemed to be as thin as paper, and lighting that belonged in a B-grade horror movie. The restaurant (actually, more bar than restaurant) was small and could only fit fifty people at most if they all stood on their toes on the dusty hardwood floor, already scratched from many renditions of Vicente Fernandez and Marco Antonio Solis albums and many others on the jukebox. The windows weren't what I would call clean, but the bartender appeared to think that if you could barely see how dirty the cars in the small parking lot really were, then it was good enough for customers. Finally, the whole place was directly beneath a six-story hotel, not really part of the building but of the structure, which could be told by the look it held when someone was outside looking in (something not very necessary). It appeared as if it could snap at any second underneath the building, and yet, it has yet to for four years of it's running. The 'owner' called it God; I called it a good job on the foundation. Either way, the look was interesting enough to make someone want to just go in and look. Of course, for someone such as myself, I wish I could have just passed by it and never seen it again.
The man was as curious as he was tall and good-looking (something I had to admit, for I knew he had little else going for him), and was out of place already with his dress, for it was actually quite tasteful. Everyone else was as casual as possible without being mistaken for a homeless person, which these people actually were, in some cases (well, they at least became so after a night there). This was also not only the reason he shined brightly (he was washed, for one), but the reason many eyes drifted to his pockets, which bulged with something somebody in the place wanted.
It would be entertaining because I had an idea who it was.
It was quite obvious that he hadn't come for a drink, a rest, a sit, a game of darts (which was more of a game of wave the hand with nothing in it), or anything that involved being an actual customer at the bar, because he made a trail straight towards my direction, much like a spook hot on a criminal's heels. However, it was not towards me. I doubted he even saw me, because he seemed to only see one person ever since she'd dropped him. Quite pathetically, one could add, and be phenomenally correct.
In his stately tan coat and black trousers down to his expensive-looking shoes and up to his dark crew cut, he intimidated all the men around my sisters without even a stare in the eye---he was already twice most of their heights---and out of his way, and he saw her, not in his mind.
She, of course, was humorously shocked. And of course she had to be. It was like a Doberman among Chihuahuas. Really, more that than not so, for the men were almost shaking as they each disappeared, like cockroaches if not dogs.
A moment passed, one that brought attention to light in the room and sound not existing and distractions not occurring on time. A moment that she probably thought was too long to be possible. A moment that she chose to stop being the herself that the men previously around her thought her to be, the herself that her sisters saw in public, and the herself that she tried to be all the time, so her guard couldn't be down and so she couldn't not be the sex kitten she'd dreamed of being since before puberty. That moment that I should have filmed and posted online so she would hate it forever. Because I couldn't savor that little act, I could only listen in.
Bianca cleared her throat, almost spilling her beer in the process. Her eyes became bug-like and she looked more vulnerable than ever, and she finally spoke under his view, which almost spewed venom. The voice she used, unlike being usually melodious and honeyed, was squeaking like bad brakes.
"W-what are you doing here?"
He answered nothing, just crossed his arms, and waited for a few seconds. I thought immediately of the great and terrible Chinese delivery guy from China Sun Buffet. Because of that, I was actually straining not to smile while my sisters had backed away. Bianca may have been surrounded by the army, and she still would have been on her own.
Then: "I just came to settle a debt." he said coldly.
Pretty much everyone in the room without a life was listening (everybody, just to clear that even further), and they all wore a confused look, just as bewildered as Bianca was at that moment.
"I-I'm so---?"
I believe no one saw when he snatched his wad out of those bulging pockets, because I didn't and he may as well have been next to me, and Bianca had been staring into his eyes, but I'm sure everyone had the other luxury, as their eyes were glued to Bianca.
In a swift move, he flicked a few hundreds at her, like a person would if perhaps, uncaringly buying gum. He seemed to make sure that they would hit her near or on the face, where she would clearly see them. Then, after much more confusion, he added, "I never like having embarrassing debt on my shoulder, I'm sure you've discovered." before waltzing out of the bar. Lights seemed to go on and the music seemed to get louder as he did. However, nobody removed their eyes from her for a few seconds, because the look, as sad as it was, was truly priceless.
That night, after the taxicab home (for she'd gone home first after the scorching incident, further eliminating my original ride home) I had a minor epiphany: that man, Gerard Pistlean (pronounced pist-lawn), had only done this out of spite, but that hadn't been the initial motive. He'd done it because the ridiculous man had been burned by my sister, Bianca Canbarrae (like most of the men within a mile radius, but one of the first to act on such emotion).
And although he did indeed hurt my sister and socially scar her, (although based on where he'd done it, I'm sure this one is manageable) further disowning me as an acquaintance and earning a woman scorned's sister, I did have to admit: this was something to be proud of. At least he hadn't cowered and cried. He supported what he believed about love---well, actually the Good Deed philosophy and the Golden Rule---and went through with it.
Just as, I realized when I paid the driver and stepped into my home, I would.
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