Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much to drink tonight. Now his head’s a mess and his heart’s heavy in his chest. And everything he wants to say is lost to the space between them in this crowded room. He sees them talking by the bar, though he’s not certain what’s going on. Conversation, of course. He swears Maria’s leaning a little closer into this unnamed stranger who’s making her laugh like she so often does with him.
Or it’s all in his head. Sometimes, it’s so hard to tell. He’s the jealous type, though he refuses to admit it. And he hates when she goes out on her own because anyone like this asshole at the bar can approach her, talk to her, make her laugh the way she’s laughing now.
But it’s not that she can’t engage in a conversation with someone else, even when they’re out together. Of course that’s not it when Maria goes out with her friends all the time. No, it’s the argument they had earlier about something he can’t remember. It’s the way she told him to fuck off right before walking away. How she seemed wounded or distressed or angry when looking at him but is now smiling like nothing’s wrong with someone else. Is it on purpose? God, he hopes not. Maria’s not toxic like that, though, at times, he can be. Like now. Jealous and angry and wanting so much to beat the living shit out of the man talking to his girlfriend at the bar.
How much longer can he watch this little scene of carefree banter? It’s too much, sitting back here in the corner of the room, seeing their mouths move but not hearing the words. It’s killing him on the inside to be left out and not know what’s being said. Or what’s got her smiling that pretty smile usually reserved for him.
So, abruptly, he gets up without his drink, nearly stumbling as he rounds the small corner table and then approaches the bar where they’re standing and talking. But they stop. And Maria looks at him with something in her eyes that he can’t quite understand. The alcohol’s gone to his head and clouded his thinking. Nothing makes sense, not even when he takes hold of her upper arm and then leans in close without saying a word. The alcohol must be heavy on his breath, but she doesn’t push him away. It all happens so fast, too. The act itself is so absurd, so childish. It’s painfully obvious that he’s not feeling confident tonight. Not after their argument. Not after drinking so much his head hurts.
The kiss is short because it’s only meant to let the stranger know Maria’s taken. He doesn’t linger either, pulling away almost immediately out of fear she might shove him back. Then, turning to look at the stranger, he grins triumphantly. This burning jealousy is almost too much to bear, but he’s certain the kiss has sharpened the point he’d wanted to prove. Even if Maria’s not impressed with how he’s acting right now. At least he has the excuse of being drunk. And he can pretend like he doesn’t remember come the morning.
