The Last Valentine

As for Javier Villalobos, he slowly fell into a deep depression. Each day without Angelica was more difficult than the last. He laid awake at night tossing and turning, hoping she would emerge from the shadowed corners of their bedroom. In the mornings, he struggled to climb out of bed, lying with his head on her pillow in search of the slightest scent of her perfume. For a man who had never been in love prior to meeting Angelica de las Fuentes, heartbreak proved to be his undoing.

And it wasn’t just his heart that ached. The heartache was merely the tip of the iceberg. He felt his chest tighten and his stomach twist in knots. He couldn’t eat and he couldn’t breathe. When he tried to speak to God his throat tensed, and his jaws clenched. He drew sharp breaths to fight back the tears, but his eyes burned when the shattered pieces of his soul fell from his eyes.

Eventually he turned to the bottles behind Roberto’s bar. He sought to drown his sorrow and find comfort at the bottom of a bottle. A steady diet of alcohol and cigarillos replaced his meals. He poured Brandy into his Café and grew well acquainted with the Whiskey from America and the Scotch imported from Europe.

After several weeks, he finally reported her missing. His superiors asked him why he waited so long, but he would not say. He would not reveal his pain. He was too proud—as Latin men tend to be—to allow anyone to see his broken heart. He would only say that he had expected her to return eventually, but when she didn’t he knew he had to file a police report.