Strange Encounter

by Engels Vargas


I knew I was wasting my time there, but decided to stay anyway. I still had money in my pockets. With a cool glass of whisky in my hands I watched myself reflected on the mirror behind the bartender. A three day beard darkened my face and my neck. My eyes were red and tired. That night none of the girls dared to speak to me. (Maybe not showering for three days had something to do with it.) I talked to them anyway and found some satisfaction in scaring them away with the stupid things I said and my bad breath.

She was by then far away after leaving me on Valentine's Day. (She couldn't have been more coldhearted.) She chose the right day to show me how little she thought of me and what we had when we lived together. I know that there isn't a perfect day for a breakup, but February 14th?
Four months later I was still trying to forget her, sitting on the stool of an Irish bar under the dim light where nobody can see you cry and with desiccated wild animals in every corner (to remind you of how dead you are), blues playing in the background to rip your heart out and white girls strolling in short dresses, showing off those long and beautiful legs that you can't touch.

I admit it. I'm weak. I'm a masochist. I'm an idiot. I love women lighter than me and the pain they inflict in me. I keep falling for the wrong ones. I was at that bar three nights in a row.
When I ran out of money, I walked out of the place. It was already four in the morning. As expected, I came out empty-handed. As I strolled down Eighth Avenue I felt how heavy my head and my shoes had become. I could barely walk. I slowly went down the stairs and walked along one of the halls of Penn Station.

Hard to imagine that somebody could have been having a worse night.

"Excuse me, Sir, Sir! I'm talking to you!" a feminine voice said to me.

The whisky must've started kicking in, I told myself as I kept walking like an automaton, feeling my heart beating in my temples.

"Sir!" The girl yelled before pulling me by the sleeve of my shirt. I turned around and saw her.

"I called you, but you kept walking. I hate being ignored. I don't know why, sometimes I feel everyone enjoys treating me like shit. Why you people treat me like that?"

"Sorry about that. I thought you were calling someone else," I responded timidly while I inspected her thoroughly.

"All people in New York think that when someone calls them it's to beg or to steal from them. Do I look like somebody that's asking for money?"

I remained quiet, processing in my head her beautiful voice. Everything she said sounded so good to me. Her attention injected me with life. I immediately felt an idiotic smile stretching out in my face. I was happy to have somebody talking to me. I saw myself reflected in her blue eyes.

"Why did you stop me?"

"To ask you something..." She said calmly.

"Yeah? What?"

"Do you think I'm ugly?"

I never thought that someone would ask me such a thing.

I began studying her. Abstractedly, I looked at the short bridge of her nose, at her small ears and thin eyebrows, her long eyelashes and the shape of her face. Suddenly I saw myself taking her home to meet my parents, holding her hand while we strolled down the Village, riding our bikes in Central Park. Then on the right corner of her thin lips I noticed a gash. I felt disgusted, I wanted to throw up.

Out of the blue, the putrefied wound disappeared and I imagined her begging me to kiss her madly. I began losing myself in her blue eyes and my lips were eager to touch hers.

She stayed motionless, looking at me intensely, waiting for my response.

"Dude, I asked you a very simple question. Why are you taking so long? If you don't wanna answer, fine. Just tell me: Am I ugly or not?"

Her words woke me up. How could I admit, without hurting her, that her wound disgusted me? I had no choice, so I decided to lie. I breathed deeply, grabbed her by the shoulders and told her in a serious tone:

"No, I don't think you're ugly."

She smiled and showed me her perfect teeth. Her sudden joy wasn't easy to describe. Strangely, once again, her lips seemed so desirable to me. Her skin seemed flawless. I wanted to kiss her, bite the thin pink lines below her nose, and touch her lips slowly with the tips of my fingers but the gash reappeared, with its pus spreading all over her face. I slowly walked away from her.

My head felt numb and my legs kept moving slowly, carrying my heavy body. Suddenly I felt a hand on top of my shoulder. I looked to my left and in the glass of a store noticed her reflection. I wondered what she was up to this time. I rubbed my eyes and perceived in front of me her beautiful curly blonde hair. She remained silent, looking at me with those eyes I found so captivating.

"So you mean it when you say I'm not ugly?" She asked cheerfully.

"Yes, I mean it. Why did you ask me that?"

"My boyfriend's ex says I look like an ass." Her eyes became watery.

"She's just messing with you. Pay her no mind and you'll be fine."

"That bitch still calls him everyday. It's hard to ignore her."

"Oh man, you shouldn't be talking to her. Your boyfriend shouldn't be putting you through this. That's sick! What's wrong with you people? Why are you still with him? You should dump him!"

"I don't know, can't explain it! I love him, I know I do," she said and began to sob. I pulled her close to me, held her in my arms and started stroking her hair.

This world is crazy. Why don't I find a girl like her? Why does nobody love me the way she loves him? It pains me to see these pricks finding love. This world is fucked up.

I lifted her chin, looked her in the eyes and kissed her. I immediately felt that electricity of the first brush of lips. Some people passed by and stared at us strangely, as if they had never seen such a display of affection.

"You are not ugly, baby," I said again, rejuvenated by those kisses but that disgusting wound was present again. I slowly let go of her and thought of abandoning her in the middle of the corridor.

"You're right, I should dump his ass," she said and smiled while I remained silent, disturbed by the look of her repugnant mouth.

"You wanna come home with me?" she added. My hands became sweaty and my legs started shaking. As I was looking for answers, I slowly turned my head to the left and saw her reflection in the glass of the creamery. For the first time I perceived her skinny legs trapped in a pair of ragged blue jeans. I noticed her white baggy t-shirt. I saw her black short hair, his tired brown eyes, his bearded face, his square jaw, his thick wounded lips, his crooked teeth, his long and strong arms, his broad shoulders and saw that I was alone.


Engels Vargas was born and raised in the Dominican Republic. He has a B.S. in Computer Science from The City College of New York. He is currently working on a novel entitled Passport.