Today, I came across a Twitter post with a single question: “What is love?”

And I wondered, who can answer this question? Who truly knows what love is? 

These thoughts ate me all night. I could not sleep. I’m only seventeen, but I have abandonment issues. 

When my mother told my father she was with child, he fled. The typical “I’ll buy a cigarette, be back never.” 

She grew bitter, and I say grew because she was a loving mother for my first eleven months. She recorded every breath I took during that time, truly. Ad if she expected my father to return and show him all my firsts. There were two cameras on us day and night. 

I could see the exact moment she shifted, and it was not gradual. On the eve of my first birthday, the mask fell off, and I wasn’t there anymore. The neighbors had to come and check up on me. Until she left, she didn’t die, didn’t get sick or something. She decided to leave me. I was eleven.

“What the hell are you doing?” Camila, my mentor, yelled at me, taking me out of my stupor. 

She was a bitch whenever she could, which was constantly. 

“Not getting laid, Camila?” Probably why she was always sour. 

“None of your damn business, jackass.” The flush on her face told me all I needed to know. “Now, look at what you’re doing. You're gonna fry the building.”

Tired of being a fast-food attendee, something that also didn’t go well at all, I took this apprenticeship job as an electrician. And Camila was furious she was assigned to teach me. She thought, for someone older than her, if only by months, I should know a lot more.

The thing is, her father owns the company, she was raised among wires. At age six, she made her Barbie house have more than illumination, but all the outlets worked. Not that she would use’em in plastic, but she could if she wanted. 

She didn’t have any siblings, so I am assuming she’s filling this position with me. Making me her punching bag.

“Uhh, Camila. The red wire shouldn’t be here, should it?” I was terrible at this as well.

What’s next? I’m guessing street begging, cuz there’s nothing I’m good at. 

“You, idiot! The green connects with the blue and the red with the white.” She pushed me out of the way. “Let me.” 

After she connected them, she unplugged them all and made me do it all over again. We were in the same spot for the entirety of my shift. 

“See, ONE entire day for you to learn the most simple thing.” Her tone was more like a teacher talking to a dyslexic kid, in a definitely inappropriate manner. “ Go home, Stuart, and read the manuals. Do not enjoy your weekend; learn this shit before you do some serious damage.” 

I left with a mixture of embarrassment and hatred. Camila was a vixen.

But she’s kinda right, I need to learn. I’m at a crossroads here, I give up or start to be at least decent in something. 

And I am tired of giving up.

“Dan, my man

Hustlers at 6?

Scratch that…not a question, IT’S a DEMAND. Hustlers at 6”

Victor always had his way of taking me places I could not afford. 

“C U there” I hit reply. I can’t concentrate anyway. 

I still had a lot of time to get ready so I bashed my head on the manuals for hours. I learned that…nothing, I learned nothing. 

I’m dumb, there’s no other explanation. I’ll become a beggar next week, albeit a cute one, at least.

I’m not full of myself, but I know how I look, and it’s not that bad. 

Victor must be a pimp or have a sugar mama somehow, cuz we don’t even get in line for any club. And he is not one to work much, neither come from wealth. 

Hustler is a level 4 on the list of clubs, five being the top. Meaning, you could find some Bs in here. And today, like any other day, it’s packed.

“See that chick?” he points to a curvy short girl with braided hair that reaches her but. “She’s in that show, the one with a bunch of vampires.”

I look at him, dumbfounded, and I am the dumb one. “There are hundreds of vampire TV shows these days, Victor.”

“Oh, you know the one.” He leads us to a private sector of the club.

It’s a mezzanine with a small bar and holds at least a hundred people where we don’t have to be glued to each other. 

“One on each corner.” Victor points to two alone girls in the bar. They are both in shadows, but I can see short blond hair and what looks like puckered red lips and fiery long hair with…a scowl. 

“Oh no, no, no.” I take several steps behind, almost hitting the stairs. “I know that move all too well, brother. You’ll get the cute blond one, and I’ll get the sour red.” 

“Fine.” He sighs. I knew it! I almost a-had the moment. “We’ll rock, paper, scissors.”

That rarely goes in my favor, but it’s the best option. The other girls on the floor are taken. 

And sure enough, I got the fiery hair girl with the bad mood.

 I study her for a moment, she’s drinking beer, nothing fancy. I can afford that.

So I check the one he is drinking, and when she’s close to finishing one, I order the bartender two and take it to her, myself. Nothing of this “he sent it” cliché. Never worked, never ill. 

“I take it you needed something to lighten your mood.” Not my best line, I know. But I didn’t have much; she was in the dark, and all I could see of her figure, posture, and demeanor was her bad mood. 

Contrary to her negative vibe, her voice is soft. Is she crying? I think she is. “Thanks for the kind gesture, but I can buy my own booze.”

I see a single tear fall from her cheek, and then her posture changes. She becomes harsher. What hurt I imagined was gone. When she speaks next she is…cheerful. “But I would welcome sharing a shot of tequila.”

I wasted no time ordering not two shots, but four. “The first one is for you and the second is for my bad life.”

“Should we order a bottle, then?”

“I would.” And I say that because I know I can’t pay for one. So I would, it’s going to be just that, a possibility. 

“Let’s.” And she finally looked at me. My face fell.

Something akin to rage flickered through her eyes. Then she motioned to the bartender and proceeded to order. “ A bottle of Fuenteseca, please.”

Then she fully turned to me, talking as if we were two people getting to know each other for the first time. “I have no idea why a bottle of tequila made in California is so good and so damn expensive.” She downed the last of her beer and the one I brought her. “Have you ever tried?”

Was she playing me? “I don’t have the money for it.” I said dryly. 

“And here I thought you’d have. You are in one of the most expensive clubs in town, are you not?”

She always knew how to push all my buttons; why would today, of all days, be different? “I’m here with a friend.” I say through clenched teeth.

“Oh!” she blinked like a doll. “And she lets you wander and hit on lonely girls? Let me guess, she wants a third part?”

“You know what, drown in the whole bottle.” I make a move to get up, but her hand rests on my forearm. 

“Drink with me, Daniel.” The Vixen! My name rolled on her tongue like a charm.

I sat down on cue with the first four shots being put in front of us.

Camila takes two at a time and hands one to me. Then she says something like a payer. “Arrima, abajo, al centro y a dentro.” In perfect Spanish, may I add. 

I looked at her, my shot frozen on my forefinger and thumb. “No lime or salt? It was all I could say.

“That’s for the weak.” She gives me a devilish smile. Possibly the alcohol talking. 

Man up, Daniel! Man up! I tell myself before my shot. I don’t repeat her words, I have no idea what they mean, but I manage to down the liquid with the straightest face possible. Which it’s clear that was not that straight. 

“That’s all you can handle?”

This is a girl I have never seen before, the Camila I would have enjoyed meeting outside the construction site. 

We take the second shot. She teaches me the words. “Up high, down low, to the center and inside.” Or something like that. 

Her laugh is contagious, unexpected, and it pulls you towards her like she is the center of the damn universe. 

I’m both infuriated for the hell she gives me every second and enthralled. 

I look around to find Victor, and sure enough, he has his lips locked with the blond girl.

Camila reaches for the bottle. I try to do the gentleman thing and open for her, filling once more our four shots. 

If she can be a different person today, so can I. 

We take the four shots without pause. 

“You know, I was supposed to be on a blind date.” She reveals. 

I don’t think for a second she wants my pity, and I don’t give her that. “In a certain way, you are.”

Her eyes search mine for a joke. “I never thought Daniel Stuart would be better than Cliff Saunders.”

“You had a blind date with an actor?” I almost choked. 

“A B lister, a social climber. And yet, my ladder is not high enough for him to climb.” 

I pour four shots for us again. “His loss is my gain, Camila Costa.”

She opens a smile I never thought she was capable of, grabs a pinch of salt, bends her neck slightly, and deposits it there.  

I welcome the invitation. I lick the salt, drink the liquid, and am not surprised to find the lime in her mouth. 

My head hurts from Sunday to Monday. That bottle was not only exquisite and expensive but gave me a hell of a hangover. 

I get to the job site with blurred vision and a pounding head. 

“You’re late.” The stern voice of Paulo Costa comes from my left, before I even get to the changing room. 

“I don’t care if it’s a first or not.” He continuous. “I get you coming in late again, and you’re out. Understand?”

I stand there, frozen. He was never that rude to me. 

“Answer me, boy. Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I blurt out. “It won’t happen again.”

I change quickly and go to the last wall I was working on, connecting the wires I left undone last Friday. Trying to remember what Camila taught me, and what I could retain from the manuals.  

“Told you to date the manuals this weekend, Stuart.” She all but shoved me aside and redid all my work, but… precisely the way I’ve done. “Never gonna learn, you piece of shit.”

I was not expecting a good welcome after the weekend, but most certainly not this. 

We worked in silence, well, I worked in silence, afraid of saying the wrong thing to this new person. She jabbed and cursed me all the time.

I was midway taking my shirt off when I heard. “You improved by ten percent.” And that was all.

“Bro, I haven’t seen you since Saturday?” The bastard is sprawled on my sofa, channel-surfing through statistics. I haven’t paid cable this month. 

“Sure, Victor. You left me.” I don’t blame him. And the rest of the night was not all that bad.

“Thought you were hitting it off, sorry.”

A cacophony of emotions passed through my head at the moment. I did enjoy the Camila I met at the bar, we did have a lot, and I mean a lot, of fun. We didn’t need to go too far to know the sex would be exceptional. But then, today, she acted like nothing happened. 

“Dude, she is practically my boss.” I wouldn’t tell Victor anything else, or else he’d been all over the situation. He wisely didn’t offer any word on that, but he gave me a knowing look I had seen so many times.

Thursday came in the blink of an eye. Almost weekend. Almost work free. 

“Daniel Stuart, come into my office.” I’ve never seen Mr. Costa sound so bossy, for lack of a better word. Aside from the day I got in late, he was always nice, fun even. 

“Yes, sir. I’m here. What do you want to discuss.” Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.

“My house on the lake is in dire need of some trimming.” I half sobbed for not getting fired, and half cried for having no idea what he wanted. “I’ve seen Camila teaching you this past month, and I think you can do it. But it’s more than electric stuff. You up for it? What can you do?”

Nothing. I almost blurted out, but I couldn’t be that honest. 

“Sir, before coming here, I worked at a fast food restaurant; aside from half-prepared meals, I don’t know much of anything.”

I was half afraid to lose this opportunity, or else I’d be in the streets soon. 

“If you’re up for it, I’ll have someone in and out teaching you with all the basics. Are you prepared to learn something you can take for life, boy?” 

I really hate when he calls me boy, I am no boy. But I smiled brightly and said yes, like I was getting married to the most perfect woman of my life. 

And I was tricked. I have to live in his house for the foreseeable future. Granted, I could come back to the city in the weekends, but it’s the lake, who would want to come back to this shit whole? 

I find Camila by the wall we last worked. She has an undecipherable expression. “I fixed the outlet from yesterday, again.” I am sure the outlet was perfect, but I keep my mouth shut. “Now, the downstairs bathroom has two outlets and the shower to be worked on.” She moves before barely finishing. 

Both outlets are almost all done, I just connect the final wires and fix the lid, all with her breathing down my neck.

The shower is trickier; there is some yelling on both parts, “that wire first,” “no, the friction tape is before that,” and “those two are causing friction; it’s gonna overheat.” Honestly, I was hopeful to get out of the city and away from this woman.

I was under the showerhead when she decided to test it. She outstretched her arm and turned the tap. The current was strong and perfectly warm. I slowly turned my head to her; she had the chipish look of a kid who accomplished what she wanted to do. 

I didn’t think twice, I pulled her under the water. And, like anything, I didn’t think. It had no space for two people, it barely fit one. So our bodies practicality merged. 

Our mouths were so close that with the slightest move, we’d be kissing. And we stayed there for torturous moments. 

She pinned me to the wall, both of my hands on my back. “So you think you are ready to take a project on your own?” she all but whispered. Was she…was she, what? What was she thinking?

“I guess I got tired of being oppressed by you.”

She tried to take a step back. “Is that how I make you feel?”

She saw all in my face, the hurt, the anger, the confusion, all I felt where she was concerned. 

She turned off the faucet and left. Not a word. 

Thankfully, the day was over. Otherwise, I’d have to work soaked. And thank God Camila had her own place to change. I didn’t have to face her. 

When I checked again if my locker was empty, I found a single scrap of paper. 

Tipsy Tavern 7 sharp.

I knew the handwriting; if she thought she could mess with me, she was even more unhinged than I thought. 

But I went. I deserve a medal, Idiot of the Year, or something. 

There she was, different bar, same spot, same expression.

I approached the same way but with no words.

“I’m sorry for all I made you feel.”

With a brittle voice, it was all she said. She downed the beer I gave her, paid for both, and left. 

Once she was out of sight, the bartender gave me a heavy envelope. 

Directions and the keys to the house. A thick paper caught my attention: a schedule of all the people who would be there to help me.

And who would be there first thing on Monday morning?