The next day, Mexico was keeping herself busy when she wasn't at work. Whenever she was in an idle situation, she was trying her best not to think of America. It had been a while since she showed such concern for someone. It almost made her think about how her older brother Spain showed concern for her when he found her asleep at the top of a small Mayan pyramid. Come to think of it, America showed concern when he heard her sob story about being broke and not being able to properly protect the outskirts of the country. What did all of this mean? Why is she only starting to have these feelings now?
Since she had no songs in her head at that moment (a rare occurrence indeed), she decided to strum carelessly on her shiny acoustic guitar. The butterflies, or mariposas as she called them, were seeking out the golden nectar within the confines of the desert flowers, using their proboscises to reach into the buds and give them their much-needed cleaning. Somehow, the careless strumming fit well with the overdressed insects flapping maniacally to get into the flowers.
Eventually, Mexico's fingers became sore and she had to go inside to do something else. America was at the table skimming through wanted posters from the station. Although nobody could tell from his long sleeve shirt, his wound was healing up well.
"As God – and the Goddess Pangaea - is my witness, these crooks will get their comeuppance," he commented. Mexico was learning all sorts of new words from the English language each day. She discovered another to place into her lexicon.
"Hey America," said Mexico, "I was thinking…"
"Yeah?"
"There is a tavern in this town that is always bustling on Friday nights. I love going to social gatherings and I was wondering if… I don't know… you would like to come with me?"
"Don't you still have that lingering cough that you got from your recession?"
"You had that same cough, last I checked, and yet you went out on your horse to protect the town and endanger your life." America could tell by her answer that she was slightly miffed about his reckless duty, even though somebody had to do it. It seemed that she was flip-flopping on whether he should go with her. After all, he didn't want America in all his fragility to expose himself to the wide world of nightlife.
"What did I tell you about worrying too much?"
"That I should only do it when necessary?"
"That a girl. Besides, I have my lucky horseshoe." America held up the slightly rusted horseshoe that he grabbed from under all of the papers. It was the exact one that caused the fighting amongst those village men.
"You mean you didn't give it back to one of those guys?"
"After the Indian raid, they compromised by telling me that I could keep it. I guess you could say that problem was solved by default."
Later on, America and Mexico set off for the "friendly" neighborhood tavern that was conveniently located in walking distance. By the time they went, the sun in the sky was making way for a splendid light purple. The color of the wood on the sides of the buidlings could not be distinguished in the ample twilight.
On the way there, Mexico felt the need to strike up a conversation with America so there would be a lack of awkward silence.
"So how did it feel fighting off those Indians yesterday?" she asked.
"It felt… weird," said America. Mexico expected a different answer, like "invigorating" or "scary," or maybe "wild," but no. It was simply "weird" to him.
"Why would you say that?"
"I didn't exactly know why I was fighting them, your boss just told me to do it. At the same time, it felt like the right thing to do."
"Is there any other reason?"
"I guess it's because my mother was Native America, but I guess you already knew that."
"What was she like?"
"She was a saint, that woman. She raised me, my brother Canada and my sister the Vermont Republic even though all three of us looked like the white man. It wasn't until I was adopted by England that I found out that she had died of smallpox, which I guess is the opposite of bigpox."
Inside, the tavern was abuzz with conversation and card games. There was no doubt that America's fellow rangers had come to the same place to schmooze. The activity got Mexico excited. She loved to be in public places with lots of people having a good time. She even joined in the conversation of the couple next to her.
"Barkeep," hailed America, "I would like a beer and a birch beer for the young lady." The barkeeper, who knew his way around a tap, instinctively grabbed two mugs and filled them up with the correct beverages. As soon as they were served, America put the drink to his lips and sipped nonchalantly, peering around the crowded room. He wasn't quite as extroverted as his lady friend.
"You never told me how you like it in these parts," said Mexico when she gleefully turned her head, "So… how do you like the desert?"
"The heat gets intolerable but, besides that, I think I'm staying," decided America, "It's a good thing I ran away."
"You would do that," commented the Latino man sitting to the right of America. When America slowly turned his head, he saw a fellow with caramel-colored skin, a goatee and a scar on his cheek.
"What was that?"
"That's the solution that your people always choose. They run away. Your people left Europe for that very reason and now they're invading these parts. You white people try to act big but you're all nothing but cowards." When hearing those words, America's blood reached the 212-degree mark; that is, it was boiling. He let go of the handle on his mug and made a tight fist with his hand. Without even needing to stand up, he shot his fist towards the mestizo's face and hit him square in the nose. The man fell off his stool and hit the man to the right of him on the way down.
"Things just got a whole lot more interesting!" remarked an elderly man enjoying his alcoholic beverage several tables down. The Latino man sat up a little and rubbed his nose, only to discover blood oozing out onto his sausage-like man fingers. He was not one to submit to first blows very easily, so he got back on his own two feet and socked one in America's kisser.
The crowd in the tavern, who were already somewhat rowdy in the first place, started egging them on.
"Fight, fight, fight!" they chanted. The two went at each other like junkyard dogs whose chains had broken. Each punch they threw was more painful and debilitating than the last. One would assume that Mexico would become horrified (or at least develop an "I told you so" attitude), but this time around, she did not show any exaggerated expression. In fact, she seemed to be admiring America's assertiveness.
America's anger urged him to act not on calm rationality but on unmitigated testosterone. With every punch he threw, he felt like the alpha male of nations that he would become a century into the future. However, he was also bearing the brunt from countless punches from the other man. It soon got to the point where he picked up a chair and smashed it against the Latino's back, breaking the chair's leg in the process. It did not, in any way, mean that the Latino man had a back of steal; quite the contrary. The blood seeped through his shirt from where the chair was dismembered.
After five minutes of this brutish chaos, America threw the man to the ground where several tables had been knocked over. When the Latino man propped himself up using his right elbow, he found himself starring down the barrel of a loaded pistol. America's wolfish snarl would have struck terror into his heart, but this man was already quite terrified as it was.
"Please, sir," said the man, "Do not kill me!"
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you," assured America, "But I am going to make you pay for my drink." The man did not know whether to feel relieved or too surprised for words. He simply got up and brushed himself off. Then, he showed America how he really felt
"You… are such a kind person!" With that, the Latino man hugged America as if he were his long-lost brother. America patted him on the shoulder to go along with it.
"No problem, man… no problem."
As Mexico and America were walking home, America couldn't help but be bothered by his outburst, especially since he had it in front his lady friend. As if that wasn't enough, he also had it in front of roughly half the town, thus setting a bad example in terms of adequate ranger behavior.
"You don't hate me for that outburst, do you?" he asked Mexico, since she was obviously thinking it.
"No," said Mexico, "As a matter of fact, I enjoyed it."
"You did?"
"I admire how you stand up for your honor and defend yourself every chance that you get. You have that rough-and-tumble spirit that made you American in the first place. It almost makes me like you even more." Mexico said the last sentence with a smooth, melted tone that would normally go along with rapidly-blinking eyelashes. From hearing that, America felt cuddly warm on the inside, the type that one would feel when holding one of those hot water bottles with the fake fur lining. Nevertheless, he still felt terrible for what he did to that man.
"I don't know what got into me. As a ranger, what I want to do is solve conflicts with words, which is what I tried to do with those two guys yesterday. That never happened, though. Now, I'm expected to solve the conflicts through violence."
"You did exactly that in the bar."
"Yeah, but maybe you've noticed that I didn't actually kill him? I immediately stopped my seeping rage and primal urges before they truly got ugly."
The couple finally got back to the house, which had candlelit windows showing that Boss was still awake. The desert flowers, however, took their hint from the darkened sky and closed up to slumber. The couple decided to stand by one of the lit windows to set the mood.
"Say what you want," said Mexico as she held each of America's hands and looked him in his eyes, "But I think you're a hero." After several seconds of making direct eye contact, they latched onto each other's lips, opening their moistened mouths several times in the process. Afterwards, they took some more time to look at each other, acknowledging the new, different feelings that they had right then and there, whichever ones those may be. America could see an awkward-yet-endearing smile emerging from Mexico's face while Mexico spotted America remoistening his lips with his tongue. "We should get ready for bed. You know how Boss gets when we're gone for too long."
Before they got inside, they let go of each other's hands, severing the meaningful connection they had… only literally, though, not emotionally.
