"In Which Reality Resounds a Siren Call"

(Pt. 1)

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"Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences."

-

Emery Allen

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12: 35 AM

Encontrarse, Downtown Square

The comforting smell of freshly-baked apple buns and newly-brewed coffee wafts in the open air, welcoming me as I walk through the smooth glass doors of Encontrarse. 

I breathe into the warm delicious aroma like it was the only type of oxygen I ever knew. My stomach makes a gurgling sound.

I look around the wide space, basking in its cozy and vibrant atmosphere that reminds me of salt air and white cottages near sandy beaches under a bright Andalusian* summer sun.

Bought and built a few generations back and now owned by Oscar Benvidez-slash-Tia's dad, Encontrarse is one of the most popular and reputable restaurants in Averill's downtown area. 

Aside from serving good authentic Spanish cuisine, it boasts a cultural dive into the overall culinary experience. 

The whole dimension of the place was shaped like a pentagon, occupying half the block. Inside, guests are greeted by a wall of beautiful mosaics illustrating geometric patterns and vintage graphic posters of famous Spanish films and singers on white exposed brick walls. Underneath them, lines of solid wooden shelves display an array of books, decorative plates, ceramic pots, and antique memorabilia. 

If you look down, you'll notice the floors are covered with countless rows of pennies coated in resin. A wooden arabesque serves as a partition* between the bar and the dining area while a stage was set on the darker far right side of the room, slightly obscured from the entrance.  

What I love about the whole design though, is the mix of installation art to the classic Andalusian decor. 

The handmade incandescent pipe lights, with their mason jar-covered ends, hang by the wooden beams that shoot across the ceilings. 

Curtains, made of colorful recycled plastic bottle caps, beads, and fairy lights hang by the ceiling, almost resembling intricate tapestries in rich jewel tones of pomegranate, teal, canary, and squash.

Wrought iron sconces and lanterns are placed at the sides to give an accent to the mellow ambient lighting. Saying I know this place with the back of my hand — even blind and drunk — is not an exaggeration.

I pass by the bar surrounded by patrons sitting idly on high chairs, nodding meekly at an elderly bartender.

The dining area was bustling. Servers rush back and forth, giving my intoxicated mind a head rush.

The room begins to spin like a motion blur filter was added in my eyes.

I stagger a bit, reaching for the closest thing I can hang on to, my vision getting worse.

Why did I even drink more than I can take?

Oh, that's right, 'coz my family did not raise a quitter — just alcoholics.

"Sly, order for table five, por favor!" A semi-raspy voice, with the faint undertones of a Castellan accent, cuts through my thoughts. 

I turn around, just in time to see a petite woman manning – or was it womanning? – by the podium with an iron hand. 

Underneath her simple loose shirt and jeans, she stands, barely bordering at 5'5" even with the extra inch boost from her boots. One of her hands rests on her trim waist, an enviable feature for any woman who had given birth.

Her warm bronze complexion looks flushed against her wide sweat-slicked high cheekbones and lengthy dark locks of hair that fell in waves on a beach, framing her heart-shaped face.

Her bold feathery arched brows — a trait she shares with her sister — shoot up in surprise as her dark round deep-set eyes, faintly bruised and puffy from a lack of rest, fall in my direction.

She smiles, transforming her mere pretty face into a stunning vision of beauty, and lighting up the room around her.

She waves me over to come closer. "Hey, Ave!"

I stumble a few feet from her, silently proud of myself for crossing the room without falling over, and wave. "Hey, Tilly."

"Sorry, you just missed Tia and the others. I heard Emile say they were gonna" — she air-quotes with her hands — "'paint the whole town rainbow' or something in a new club." 

"Yeah," I croak, my vision getting blurry again.

I blink a few times. I lick my dry chapped lips, trying to come up with a decent PG-version of our night that won't get Tia into trouble or bring Tilly and Oz a brain aneurysm.

Besides, Tia was smart. She can take care of herself.

"I actually went with them, but I decided to go back first."

"I can see that," Tilly nods pensively.

I send her what I hope to be a grin, my control over my facial muscles almost non-existent at this point.

"Dios mío,* you can barely stand on your own feet," she remarks, a motherly concern in her tone.

She flits over me, putting a hand on my lower back for support.

"Vamonos.* Come on" — she grabs my arm, guiding me across the bistro —"nothing like a good cup of café can't fix."

I almost trip before I can take a second step. Instinctively, I grab the nearest thing I could reach for support — which just happened to be a random man's greasy bald head.

"I've always wondered what Mr. Clean's head would feel like,"  I giggle under my breath, using his head as a support as I wake my sleepy legs.

"Or maybe two," she pats my back in a reassuring glance while murmuring a quick 'sorry' to the disgruntled customer

If it wasn't for Tilly's hand, I would've fallen flat on my face. I stumble again. I may be drunk, but that doesn't make me less conscious about my appearance. 

Peeking around, I can probably guess what the other customers thought of me.

A tall girl with damp hair sticking to her face and curling in a tangled mess. Her eyeliner runs down her eyes and her soaked clothes clinging to her body like she just participated in a wet t-shirt contest.

I silently groan.

I don't usually feel intimidated or defensive about how people perceive me. Apparently, while inebriated, I am.

Why must the beautiful things in life — and yes, alcohol is one of them — be the things that break us and screw with our heads?

I was Ave Michaels, the resident rebel one does not fuck with, for fuck's sake!

I don't get discouraged by a wardrobe malfunction, badger eyes, or a bad hair day. I strut like I don't give a fuck about the place and own my personal brand of messy hair... most days.

Right now, I walk shakily like a comedic dancer, while I'm fretted over and supported by a woman who could barely reach my chin.

Tilly guides me past the dining area when the sound of guitar strings takes my attention. My ears perk up at the sound, and I close my eyes.

https://youtu.be/-dRJ7MLeCic

A wave of calmness overtakes my drunken stupor.

I didn't care if I was openly tripping, or if my eyeliner streaks down my jaw.

All I cared about was the captivating strum of the guitar as its player expertly plucked each string into a beautiful tune. Its haunting echo vibrates into my entire being, and a voice like an angel begins to sing.

"I found a flower in a field

A field of cars and people, rows of concrete, paint, and steel..."

"Okay, just one step at a time," Tilly instructs.

"Manhattan is where it grew."

I was so heavily entranced by the lyrics and the underlying pain portrayed by the storyteller that calls to me.

The wistfulness in his tone, so brilliant and clear, unfolds in front of me. His voice is like a soothing balm to my mind. It clears my thoughts and fills it again with only him and his song.

"And I thought," he croons, a slight lilt in his voice.

Unlike the original singer, his voice had a quality of its own. Yet every word had the same amount of sincerity that its composer ever showed.

"To cut it from its stem

And take it from the cracks

Between the bricks that it lay in

And save it from city strife

Away from the city life..."

My feet decide to move on their own — towards the source of that sweet, sweet music. It wasn't until I opened my eyes, that I was being carefully led to one of the booths by the stage.

Unlike the brightly lit dining area,  the lights are strategically scarce here,  stimulating human senses other than sight. The clandestine lamps and lanterns are placed to drop directly above the round booths.

"I really love what you've done with the place," I slur.

Tilly had really outdone herself. Her talent and creativity in installation art are amazing — as always.

"Aw, thanks, Ave. I'm planning to include this in my portfolio. I was planning to ask you if you guys would like to volunteer and help paint the walls next time."

"Hmm?" I give her a heavy-lidded smile, my attention transfixed at the stage. Most particularly, to put a face on the man who has been making my blood sing.

"Never mind, now's not the right time."

Sitting on a stool with an amber spotlight trained on him, holding his guitar firmly to his chest with his back hunched and his head facing down with his eyes closed, was the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

No, I absentmindedly rub my eyes, unsure if I'm truly seeing what I think I'm seeing.

Gorgeous doesn't even come quite close to the strange evocative allure he exudes. If anything, he was just simply divine.

In my head, I could've almost compared him to an old Chiaroscuro* painting.

The extreme lighting from the spotlight solely casts itself on his chiseled form, leaving the rest of the stage into the shadows. The blue neon lights from the side of the stage were the only things that broke the dramatic tension.

Even encased in a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal bulging biceps, there was no denying the hard well-built figure he has.

His tatty dark-washed jeans had some actual rips, while its seams were pushed upwards to reveal dark leather boots which were so worn and scuffed that tiny bits of leather was peeling off.

On a stage set that resembles a vintage relic he manages to blend in.

His understated clothing would've made any other guy who wore it look like a hobo sleeping on a bench by a sidewalk. Instead, by some cruel trick of nature, it only made every attractive part of him stand out.

His long thick blonde locks are carelessly tied into a man-bun while silky tendrils curl around his neck and over the bristly strands of his coarse beard. 

He oozes raw sexuality, unpackaged and undisguised, without an attempt for refinement while affecting everyone around him — including me.

"Cause bluebirds don't fly without their wings

And when we put them in a cage

The world can't hear them sing

So selfish when greed sets in

Possession, the king of sin..."

"Amazing, si?"

It takes me a few minutes to register what Tilly said. I glanced at her and found her staring at the same man I was almost practically undressing with my eyes.

I clear my throat and lick my dry lips. "I don't think I've seen him before."

"That's because he's new. Papá just hired him earlier. On the spot."

I gape at her, my jaw slacked. "Wait, Oz did what?"

My mouth tries to form a semblance of a sentence, but they come out simply broken down in, "How? Where? When? Why?"

I shake my head. "The Oz that I know is very picky with choosing who gets to perform on his beloved stage. And even if he does pick someone, he always does callbacks."

"Who knows" — she shrugs — "he just went in. Papá seemed to have been expecting him and asked him to play a few strings. The next thing I knew, he's been performing on stage ever since. He never even left the stage, except for a couple of bathroom breaks, as far as I'm aware of, or when Papá had to leave earlier."

"You don't think he's having a mid-life crisis, do you?"

Who am I kidding? Oz is as spry as Pops!

"No" — she shakes her head at the preposterous idea — "I already checked — just in case."

"Then, Oz really must've liked him."

Tilly makes an approving sound. "Can't see why not. I mean, listen to that voice. And that face...and that body, hm-uhm-hm," she purrs, watching him with open appreciation.

I giggle. "Down, Mami."*

I glance at the calloused fingers confidently stroking the strings. They were long and tapered, attached to strong capable-looking hands.

His thick wrists are slightly veined, something I've always found to be oddly attractive in a man.

Tattoos trail down from his right bicep down to his forearm in a fascinating composition of swirling lines knotted around and between Celtic symbols, banding together near his wrist.

He was a guy — no, a man — who wasn't a stranger to hard work or pain.

Unconsciously, I trail my fingers from my wrist to the inside of my forearms, tracing the ink ingrained on my skin as if it was his, and feeling the tiny hairs rise at the sides.

"Now, you" — Tilly puts both her hands on my arms — "sit."

She tugs them down, the rest of my body following the motion until I feel the soft velvety surface of the booth touch my bottom.

I wasn't even aware I was standing, until now.

"Just stay here, okay? I'll be right back with your coffee."

I mumble an "Okay", my eyes never leaving him.

"And people don't ever let you down

Forever find a way to kill whatever love they've found

A heartbeat and I want it too

Manhattan is where she grew..."

He sings on, unaware of the intensity of my gaze. He was too lost in his world with his guitar, his body vibrating every strum and sound.

Strangely, I feel this irrational twinge of annoyance towards his guitar. I wanted to rip it away from him and force him to only look at me.

I frown.

Under the dim light, his powerful beautifully corded muscles handle his guitar with ease. It surprises me how a muscle-bound figure like his can cradle a guitar and not break it. It makes me wonder if he can take me without breaking a bone.

"So I left and I let the flower be

And yesterday I saw the flower on cable TV

Much prettier than here with me

For all of the world to see..."

I take a shaky breath.

Fick.

Clearly, the alcohol still hasn't left my system completely.

There was no other explanation as to why I am thinking this way about a man that I barely know.

"Much prettier than here with me," he trails off, letting the last remaining words sink into the air.

Silence quickly spreads around the room.

He looks up and opens his eyes as if noticing the crowd for the first time.

Meanwhile, I feel the oxygen leave my lungs.

I can't move.

I can't talk.

You know how every man feels like he is God's supposed gift to women? Well, this man is what those men fool themselves to be.

Masculinity so potent, commanding every attention to him. Strong and muscular that can carry a girl on his shoulders and shelter her from any harm. A face carved by the great masters themselves and chiseled to rugged perfection — well almost.

I trace the scar running down his brow ridge, providing a thin clearing on his full slightly bent brows. It was a testament that he was only human — flawed and real — and it added to his overflowing sex appeal even more.

Around me, people are clapping. Women — young and old — sigh dreamily.

He doesn't pay them any attention at all. His expression stays blank.

He gently sets his guitar down. He climbs down the stage and saunters straight to the bar.

Holy motherfucker, he is TALL!

Like really, really tall that he can squash me like a bug. And for a girl who's 5'9" on bare feet, that counts as something.

I bite my lip as my eyes travel down from his back to his tight ass and tree trunks for legs.

Now all I need is Tamieke and Emile checking to see if his height is proportional to his crotch size.

What the fuck am I doing, looking at some guy's dick area?!

A new band plays a bolero* song, but I wasn't interested.

I crane my neck long enough to see him sidle up on one of the chairs while a leggy blonde with pushed-up boobs approaches him. 

I frown and sink further into my seat.

Figures, I sigh.

A man that good-looking could have his of any girl in this place. Oddly, the thought brings a strange knot in my gut.

I brush it off.

C'mon, Ave, I talk to myself. You're not the kind to easily get attached like that with someone — especially just because he has the voice and face of a fallen angel and the body of a god.  He is way, way, way out of your league. There's absolutely no chance in hell that he would ever be interested in a highly unsociable high school basket-case who can't even find the time to use a comb, survive a day without picking a fight, or master the art of conversation without offending or scaring anyone.

AND, you're not that desperate.

He's just one out of millions and billions of hot guys that exist in this world. Though they probably won't be as hot as him.

I shake my head.

No. Jason Momoa, Henry Cavill, Chris Hemsworth, Stephen Amell, Chris Evans are hot. Make that hotter. (Ugh, I can't believe I can lie so badly to myself.)

Moreover, you have much better stuff to do than wasting your time staring longingly for some totally hot and older-looking man.

I pout.

Just one more look, then I'm good. (Yeah, keep telling yourself that.)

The blond girl was laughing her stupid head off, obviously using it as an excuse to shimmy her boobs to his face.

I snort loudly. 

I shouldn't have done that.

And now, he's turning in my  direction.

(To be Cont.)

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Little fact: I actually wrote this chapter even before I started working on the first chapter. (That's how excited I was!)

Another little fact: this chapter was originally a crossover with my friend's novel (unfortunately, she won't be publishing it on Wattpad.)

Anyways, what did you think of this little scene?

Do you and your friends ever have a favorite spot or hang-out?

At a rate of 1 to 10, how willing are you to visit Encontrarse? 

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PLAYLIST

Famous Flower of Manhattan — Avett Brothers

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*[F/N]*

Andalusia— the southernmost region of hills, rivers, sandy beaches, spectacular mountain ranges,  and farmland in Spain.

Partition — (Partition Wall) non-load bearing walls that are made to separate spaces in buildings. 

Pipelights — a lighting fixture made out of pipes and lights installed at its rims.

Vamonos — (Spanish term) means "Let's go."

Dios mío — (Spanish term) means "My God."

Nosferatu — (Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror) a 1922 silent German Expressionist horror film. Its main antagonist is Count Orlok,  a vampire with an interest in both a new residence and the wife of his estate agent. Count Orlok is commonly but erroneously known as Nosferatu. One of his most distinguishing features is his weirdly shaped bald head. 

Chiaroscuro — (fine-art term)  a painterly shading technique used specifically to give 2-D objects a sense of volume by adding prominent contrast of light and shade in a painting, drawing, or print.

Mami — (Spanish term) means mommy.

Bolero — a style of music that emerged in Cuba over a century ago. It's slow, melodic and like so many genres of music, it's about "love." It was originally a form of dance that originated from Spain. 

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André