I recall the night of El Jaleao. 

The night burned of flourishing passion.

A lamp lit bar full of livid lovers laughing about the lasting effects of liquor. 

Innocent youth itching for a taste of infatuation. 

I recall the night of El Jaleao. 

Poor people presenting themselves in “proper” attire to please nobody but each other. 

White quilts covered withered stilettos.

Scarfs snaked around upper torsos tied tight around the napes of necks. 

Blood red silk laid on ladies chests reviving romance in relationships. 

Opposing black faux feathers of the forlorn felines. 

I recall the night of El Jaleao. 

The band sang solemnly striking the thin strings of splintered guitars sourly. 

Torn hats hovered over faces hiding the emotion of each man.

Except for the lone soul throwing his head back. 

The music carved its path into my bones. 

I recall the night of El Jaleao. 

I fell in love with a man I did not know. 

Glistening eyes gleamed in my direction, setting my body ablaze. 

His cream colored blouse was cuffed at the wrist, a watch settling below his hand. 

Light blue jeans belted by gold metal.

Sturdy boots walked towards me. 

Courage arised out of my limbs and my finger pointed directly at him. 

I don’t think I recall the night of El Jaleao accurately. 

If I did, maybe that man would be sitting next to me as I painted this artwork. 

But he isn’t, and this fragment of time I’m recreating never actually happened.