Carlos

I come to a bar I used to frequent long ago.
I force myself to sip tequila, and think—I still don’t really like it.

That summer, back in my student days, I joined a nature conservation volunteer program through some organization, and went to the other side of the world. There, I met a man more beautiful than any I’d ever seen.
Before I’d even settled into life at my Tokyo university, I found myself in an unfamiliar country, and the moment that warm, passionate man appeared before me, my life changed completely.

A sun that looked almost like a different one altogether—light so bright it was nearly white, primary-colored buildings lining the dry earth. Cheerful music drifting from somewhere nearby, a heat that seemed to brush against my skin. That South American land, I think, opened something up in me too.

A boy selling flowers on the street said, “Flor, por favor,” with practiced ease, and handed me a single flower. Everything about that world was new to me, and I was thrown off balance.

Off balance—and falling in love.

Now, the tequila I drink in this Tokyo bar tastes somehow incomplete, missing something, and it irritates me.
But for some reason, when the humid summer comes, I want to force myself to remember, whatever it takes.

Even the memories I can recall in this bar are incomplete. But maybe that’s alright.