He never went to bars after work. Just El Ven Y Verme on nights he couldn’t sleep. Happy hours after work never did anything for him—young people who looked more or less like him who were looking for relief from their jobs or from their lives. He had stopped looking for relief. But there he was, sitting at a bar, having a beer after work. Without even knowing why he was there, except that talking to Grace had kicked up some dust. So he didn’t want to be alone. Being alone would lead to thinking. And thinking would lead to being sad. So here he was, sitting and drinking a beer, just like everyone else. Looking for relief.
As luck would have it, Al walked through the door. Al, his annoyingly friendly colleague. He was good for two things—small talk and working on computers. He sat right next to him. Of course he did. Shit.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Andrés Segovia.”
Andrés grinned, but said nothing.
“Do you play the guitar?”
“I’ve heard that joke.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Do you?”
“You live alone?”
“Do you?”
“You like to party?”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I like to party. Yes, I live alone. And my girlfriend dumped me.”
“Because you talk too much.”
“This is going well.” Al smiled, then laughed.
“Yeah, this is fun.”
Al looked at him. “C’mon, lighten up. Let someone in.”
“The house I live in is pretty crowded. No more room.” Andrés finished his beer, then set the glass on the bar. “Gotta go.”
“But I just got here.”
“That’s why I gotta go.”
“C’mon. Have another.”
“I don’t want another. Look, Al, me and you—look, if I have another, will you promise not to fucking interview me? Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
“No, you can’t. Al.”
“Yes, I can. I promise—”
Just as he heard the word can, his eyes got caught in the face of the man who was sitting on the other side of Al. Caught, as if he’d just swallowed a fishhook. For an instant, there was no motion in the room, no breathing, no air, no sound. He knew that face, that stranger sitting next to Al, someone from the past who was almost, almost forgotten, those gray eyes, the scar on his thin lips, the neatly pressed shirt, the milk white skin.
“Are you okay?” He could hear Al’s voice and wanted to pretend that his easy voice was the only thing in the room, but he found himself pointing at the man. “I know you.”
Al looked at him, then turned to the man Andrés was pointing at.
“I fucking know you.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I was twelve.” There was a dryness in his throat, as if he was swallowing sand, and he knew his voice had been reduced to a whisper. His voice always changed in that way when a storm came. Sand everywhere. “I was twelve.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. Yes, you do.”
“I’m sorry, but—I’m very sorry.” The man shrugged and turned away. He stared into his drink.
It was him, that voice, a voice that pretended kindness, that pretended sincerity, that pretended a polite and gentle manner. I won’t hurt you. I like you. Don’t you know how much I like you? Can’t you see?
“You know me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You know me.”
The man looked up at him, and they stared at each other, and though the man wanted to look away, he didn’t, something in the young man’s eyes forcing him to look. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know you,” he whispered again, but there was nothing convincing about the way he uttered his words.
“Yes, you fucking do!” God, sometimes it was like heaven to yell. So good to clear the sand that was clogging his throat, preventing him from breathing. Andrés Segovia. That’s a beautiful name. You’re named after an artist. A guitarist from Spain. Did you know that? Just come over here and sit next to me. See? Now that doesn’t hurt now, does it? “Yes, you fucking do!” He didn’t feel himself leap toward the man, shoving Al to the floor, didn’t feel a thing. He didn’t even feel the pain in his own fists. But God, God, it was good to feel his fists pounding his face, pounding his ribs, pounding and pounding, trying to find a way, just the right spot to break through toward the freedom he’d always wanted to have, a real kind of freedom, not the kind that was just a nice word. Everything was glowing and perfect, as if the sun were setting in the room or as if he were right in the middle of a rainbow, everything bright and haloed, no shadows anywhere. God, he could live in this light forever.
“Stop, Andrés, stop! Stop!” Someone was yelling, but the voice was distant. He felt himself being pulled away from the man, but even then, it was like someone else was being pulled away, like someone else was fighting the man whose name he’d never learned, the man who you’re a beautiful boy, don’t you know that? “Andrés, stop it, fucking stop it!” He could hear a voice coming closer, Al, yes, that was him, closer now, yelling in his ear, pulling him away, but it was all so strange and none of it seemed real at all. All he could see was the man That wasn’t so bad, was it? the man just lying there, and he wanted to hit him again and again, but he felt hands all over him and they didn’t let him move, and he watched as the man slowly picked himself up, his lip and nose bleeding, and already his face was starting to swell, and they looked at each other for what seemed a long time That wasn’t so bad, was it? Maybe the sun had set. Maybe the rainbow had lifted—because the light was gone.