Spices (FIRST DRAFT) ~ An Alejandro and Alfred Story

𝓕𝓲𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓷

My drink goes up my nose as I choke on it, reaching for the napkin.

Did he just say my name?

The hall erupts into shouts, claps, and whistles. Alejandro puts a hand on my shoulder. "That's you, go up!"

I hesitantly get out of my seat, trying to look as calm and collected as possible, but inside, I know I'm breaking down. My hands shake as I walk between tables, receiving pats on the back from people all around me.

I swallow hard. This was real. I made it.

Never in a million years would I have guessed I would get to this point. I felt foolish for doubting fate, for telling myself this was impossible, and it wasn't worth busting my ass for. It was all worth it.

Every step of the journey was fucking worth it. Every time I stayed at the office past hours, each time I would bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying at my failures, each time I dragged myself out of bed, wondering why on earth I was still doing this, and especially every time I considered stopping, just giving up, because I never did.

I could have easily traded all this for comfort. This is what I mean by never being careful. The journey to success is long and frustrating, and it will never pay off unless you pour your heart and soul into it and give up every last bit of resilience and strength you have. When you hit your lowest, and it feels like your dream is being ripped from right under you, you fight back and hold onto it with a death grip. The world's purpose is to knock you down, yours is to stay standing.

I wipe my hand briefly against my pants before shaking the man's hand, and he hands me the cold trophy. I hold onto it tight, feeling its long curves dig into my palm and fingers. The real trophy is almost human sized, which would be shipped to me later, so this was a smaller model of it.

It was different from the rest of the awards. It was the most esteemed award you could be given. It reminded me a lot of a golden upside down tennis racket. It stood on a back platform and curved up and out from the bottom, almost connecting at the top, but then sharply coming up for a pointy top. A golden rod with sphere-like screws connected the two high curves midway, and a thin golden ring at the top holding the whole trophy together.

I turn toward the crowd, clapping echoing loudly in my ears. The bright spotlight illuminating the stage made it near to impossible to see who was seated below, so I felt like I was smiling at nothing.

Standing at the lectern, microphone inches away from my face, the crowd dies down. With that noise gone, I am left with the thumping of my heart to listen to, like a grandfather clock ticking away lowly in the distance.

I take a minute to gather and open my mouth.

There wasn't much to say and I don't remember what sentences my mind wove together, or how long I even took. When I snapped back to the present from my derealization episode, my ears were met with more loud cheering, claps, and sharp long whistles from the back of the room.

I step away from the lectern, and make my way to the stairs on the side of the stage. Just before I step off, I am at a certain point on the stage where the lights don't meet my eyes, and I could catch a glimpse of the crowd, and one specific person.

Alejandro was standing up and clapping amongst everyone else, but he was all that mattered. His smile and proud look was enough to make me almost trip down the stairs. I held his gaze the entire walk back to my table. When I set the trophy down, we immediately embraced into a tight long hug.

He placed a hand on the back of head as he whispered into my neck, "Congratulations, vida mia."

I ask, "what does that mean?"