Uncertainty Principle

At one of the two tables behind me sits the annoying couple, which is quite a site to analyze. He is young, ignorant, and illiterate with large and fleshy hands and legs, sturdy pillars he secures his drunken clumsiness to the floor. Looks like a bouncer who belches with callousness, laughs hard and does not hesitate to make a lot of noise. She has her hair dyed and pulled sloppy in a dirty ponytail. The blonde hair looks fake as the dark, original color peeks next to her skull. The jeans try unsuccessfully to hide the new life forming in her belly.

When the man turns toward her, instantaneously her hands go up covering her face. She knew what was to come. He easily removes her trembling hands and with her blurry features exposed his powerful fist strikes her face full of tears already. So strong that the woman, dizzy, collapses on the floor.

In between my vodka shots, I now want to kill him and the thought upsets me. He can only be defined as a human subspecies, a drunkard, a shit; I thought that using others emotion is a seductive way to entertain myself but now I stare paralyzed by the site. What kind of man beats a woman? It seems right to me that I should kill him, with my bare hands, knock him out, get my fist tired on his body.

*

I bent over and touched his shoulder, as he was lying limp against the fence. With an indecipherable mumble, George raises his sleepy face, pinkish, looking confused as he moves his eyes in their orbit. With considerable effort, he manages to release a muddled sentence with a very hoarse voice;

"My stomach is killing me! “

An acute lack of clarity goes directly through the stomach, especially after a swig of vodka.

Next, he raises his trembling hands to his twitching temples. He has a shirt full of bloodstains. His fist is bloody also and has clear marks of teeth. He is leaning against a fence outside the bar.

"Okay, I’ll help you get up, you should go home" I say in a stern voice looking down at him with pity.

I try to pull his arms around my neck, but they fell limp next to his body – George seems in the mood for arguing on top of all:

"Don’t try to lift me, if I stand up I become dizzy. I had a few glasses of vodka, but my stomach pain is not the vodka, it is the fight. “He manages to articulate.

I was cool:

"What fight, you promised you’ll stay out of trouble? Shouldn’t you go to the hospital now? "

George, dismayed by my proposal:

"No, no, I do not need treatment. I have nothing, only this terrible stomach pain. I got a fist in the stomach! He pushed his fist in my belly... “

The fist, a standard deviation of space. The streets look narrower as I feel an impulse myself traveling through my body like a-vibration from heel to the top of my head.

“You should go to the hospital” I insist, hoping for his recovery, physically and mentally.

"No, let me tell you the story. After I received the blow, the individual moved to my left shoulder, then went on to the right. I fell to the floor dizzy and after a few hours, I woke up near this fence. I do not remember anything else.”

I decide to leave him in the same place, lying injured against the rusty fence, between the two variables ruling his life: the fist and the bottle of vodka.

I stare in the dense fog of my thoughts without any resolution. I try repeatedly to find out what happened but nothing comes through- My George is neither drunk nor sober, but in a world, only he understands.

I decide to return home for some food. The house is full of light as I step in but suddenly everything vanishes and a voice, a familiar voice addresses me.

"Hey, George, wake up!"

I open my eyes and what do I see? – My wife, with a glass of water beside me splashing my face. A bit of ice wrapped in a towel is around my fist.

"Let's wake up. George, do you hear me? All night you've been gone drinking and now you complain that your stomach hurts. "

Flabbergasted, I raise my head weighing a ton and I try to fathom what happened.

I saw a chair and on it my shirt with traces of rust on its back.