What Would it Take

By UntoldCatamount

All characters copyright © 1997-2007 Square Enix. All rights reserved.

I never really considered myself a romantic.

More like a hopeless alcoholic that would find himself chasing more clouds than the meteorologist on television. And so my life has been laid out perfectly for you I suppose. In my life, all it has taken to screw things up is one fell swoop of fate. Fate is always getting in the way; what I need I cannot have, what I want is out of the question. Every time I walk by that damn place… I look inside.

And there she is.

And all I can do is slap myself mentally and say, "You fucking moron, what are you thinking? Of course, you're not thinking, are you?" Then I exhale a heavy sigh and walk on to the other part of town, to another watering hole, for another lonely evening shared with some hard liquor. The yammering and chatter I hear fall upon deaf ears; reality is nothing more than a playground in front of me while I stand on the other side of the fence and look in. I loathe those who have the ability to be happy—the prospectus of it lying right in front of them—and yet they still choose not to take it.

Bastards.

Today was going to be different. Or, at least I thought. No, it was going to be like every other day. Get up, go to work, walk by, look in, come to the same realization and the same fucking conclusions, and walk off to the other bar. Did she even bother to ever look up and see me walk by? Probably not. I'm not pessimistic, mind you: I'm realistic. Realistically speaking, what would she ever see in me to begin with?

A shallow soul?

A broken heart wanting to find refuge?

A lonely man who tries to solve his problems with alcohol, therefore giving her a reason to do business?

Who knows, much less cares?

No, today was going to be different.

I walked by the bar as I always did every time I worked. On my off days, I would just sit at home and exercise. Made it easier to cope with my own insecurity and shortcomings. Instead of walking completely by this time, I stopped. I stopped and looked at the door. Was I really going to go through with this? I looked up at the sign.

7th Heaven alright.

How was this going to go down? I began to wonder. Would I go in there and try to act cool—failing miserably—and order a drink, try to at least initiate some form of eye contact with her? Or would I run out like the little chicken-shit that I was (although not so much on the "little" part) and wander back home, defeated. Again.

I held my breath for a minute.

"What do I have to lose?" I asked myself.

I gripped the handle and pushed the door inward.

I stepped across the threshold and immediately answered my own question.

"Everything."

She was standing behind the bar, washing glasses. She was always washing glasses at this time. On these days business was light in the evenings—the normal working class saved their happy hours for the weekends or holidays. For me, this proved to be the most efficient in dealing with my social claustrophobia. I can't even go to a shopping mall without a brown paper bag to hyperventilate in.

Tifa looked up at me and smiled.

I thought about running right then and there. After pissing myself.

"Gotta keep it together," I told myself silently.

That always interested me: how one could talk without invoking their vocal chords or producing any sort of sound whatsoever. It's all in your head; just a bunch of chemical reactions.

Shit, I have to pay attention.

In her sweetest voice, she saluted, "Hey, how are you?"

If my bladder wasn't empty, I would've pissed myself as stated above. I could feel a sweat building up my back. Think man, think.

"Uh," I stumbled verbally. "Fine, fine. How about you…?"

God I was an idiot. But Christ, she was so beautiful.

Tifa tilted her head, still smiling, and replied, "I'm fine."

Obviously she knew how this game worked. If this was a trap, I was walking right into it head first with my eyes closed and my hands out in front of me like I was trying to molest some supermodel. Or a blow-up doll. She made the next move, saying, "Come here and sit at the bar. You're my only customer."

I looked around.

Indeed, the chance of making a complete dumbass out of myself had been reduced to only one person, although that casualty was the most important one. I suddenly wished there was at least one other warm body—anybody—that could help shield me from my innate ability to handle myself emotionally and logically when dealing with this situation. I decided to go out on a limb and obey the command given to me to sit at the bar.

Right where she wanted me.

I slowly stalked across the hardwood floor. It creaked under each heavy step I took. I had to not screw this up. Please, God: if You're there, take me now.

I slid onto the black leather stool situated at the matching countertop of the bar. Tifa had chosen a very black décor for her new establishment; instead of a darkness and moody atmosphere, it suggested sophistication and intellect.

Guess I was a little out of place. The suit was just required for work.

Tifa walked over and stood in front of me, the bar acting as the median. I could see a bit of slyness in her eyes and in her expression as she asked, "You always wear your sunglasses indoors?"

I could've said something witty. I could've said, "I'm blinded by your beauty." Or, "I'm blinded by your tits." Hell, even, "I just got back from the optometrist and had my pupils dilated. By the way, you're very beautiful and I love your tits." Instead, my train of thought derailed as I tried to come up with an explanation. The best I could come up with was, "Yeah…"

Way to go, Rude. It's a wonder you've been laid at all. Oh wait, that's right, you're still a virgin.

I immediately wanted to stab a fork in my brain to shut the voice up. My virginity was something that I was sorta, kinda proud of. Not many men can resist the allure of sexual encounters growing up. By God, I repelled them.

Tifa was either oblivious or unconcerned with my internal criticism of my own sexual frustrations. She simply kept smiling and asked, "Heh, well, what would you like to drink?"

I think she asked that question just out of formality. Contrary to popular belief, not every loser comes to a bar to drink. Okay, I take that back: I'm the only loser who comes to a bar to do other things than drink. Sometimes I do an acoustic guitar session in select establishments across town; however, most of them are swanky, semi-upscale places where I don't have to worry about finding true love as all the women there already have their catch-of-the-day.

I looked up, swallowed hard, and immediately came up with the perfect drink.

"At Death's Door," I said.

At Death's Door. Sixteen fluid ounces of seven types of rum, one tablespoon of bourbon, lemon-lime soda, grenadine, passion fruit juice, ice, and sugar cubes lit up. Mix it all together and dump it into a pitcher. All for one person. If their liver didn't give out when they reached the bottom, well… you can see why they named it this.

Tifa slammed her hands on the counter palms down playfully and laughed, "Somebody wants to get hammered in a hurry! Are you sure you want that? You're not driving, are you?"

I was a little embarrassed.

Maybe when I reached the bottom, I would pass through Death's door and not have to worry about this ever again.

Apparently my skin complexion was not dark enough to hide my insecurity. Tifa bottled her giddiness almost as immediately as it had appeared. She said, "Okay, I'll make you one. It'll take a few minutes. And you're going to share it with me. Deal?"

I slapped one hundred gil onto the counter to signify my acceptance.

Tifa pushed the bill back towards me. "This one's on the house," she said.

"You sure?" I asked. "That's a lot of alcohol."

"It's fine. Besides, you did have a fucking billboard land on you followed by Reno."

Oh yeah. I remembered that.

It sucked.

Tifa began mixing the ingredients. I watched in amazement at how she went through everything like clockwork, not even thinking about the right amounts. I'm sure whatever she produced would be flawless. Screw what anyone else thought. While she worked, she talked. Women are always such great multitaskers.

"So Rude," she said nonchalantly. "Why haven't you ever come in… before now?"

I didn't even have a drink and I choked. Had she been noticing me?

"Uh," I uttered, desperately trying to search for the words once more. "I…"

She was standing in front of me. How the hell could she move that fast?

Her gorgeous brown eyes were full of question. "Is it something to do with me…?" she asked cautiously. The way it sounded, she felt as if she had done something wrong to me.

Had to approach this delicately.

I looked up at her without moving my head. She could see right down into my eyes without the shades in the way. My bowels were tightening faster than Reno's grip on his dick while watching his neighbors fuck.

"You can tell me," Tifa said.

For some reason, and I don't know why, I just wanted to scream at her. I wanted to scream, shout, slap her, yell "Does it take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out what kind of signals I send?!" No, that's just what I'd do to myself. Then Tifa would suddenly wonder if I was either schizophrenic or had personality displacement disorder. Or both. All that was missing was me rolling around nude in my own shit with my tinfoil hat.

I said, "I, uh…"

She continued to mix the drink but, dammit, she kept her eyes straight on mine.

I finally couldn't take it anymore. I looked away, mumbling, "I don't know."

"Oh."

Tifa finished the drink and set the frozen pitcher in front of me. She walked around the bar and took a seat next to me, setting two empty glasses down. She poured my glass and hers.

"Cheers," Tifa said, lifting her glass.

I lifted my glass to hers, "Cheers."

We clinked and began to drink.

I knew deep down what she was trying to do: alcohol was the poor-man's truth serum. After a few drinks, she would know what she wanted to hear. I don't know if I would be brave enough for that.

"You lied," she said abruptly. "You do know what's up. Tell me, Rude. We're friends now. There's no need to hide anything."

I kept my attention on my drink.

"It's nothing," I said, knowing damn good and well that was a shot in the dark.

"Come on," she said. "You've always looked into the windows every day that you work. God knows what you do on your days off…"

"Exercise."

"What?" Tifa asked.

I breathed, "I exercise. Helps…"

"Helps what?"

I remained silent.

"Rude?" she persisted.

I could feel her hand slide over my right wrist. I could also feel her eyes trying to get a glimpse of mine. The eyes… the gateway to the soul, as they've been called. Maybe that's why I wear the shades all the time: to hide. Or at least try to.

"…keep my mind off you," I finally said.

Tifa was confused, or at least pretended to be. I think she knew all along. Maybe she wanted to deny it. Maybe she wanted to hide from it and pretend like it never existed. Maybe she knew how to cope with it and I just needed some instruction.

She softly said, "Rude…"

"This was a mistake," I admitted.

I slid up from my barstool and tried to make a subtle but hasty exit. Tifa's hand grabbed my arm before I got a few feet away.

"Wait," she said. "What is wrong with you? I don't even know…"

What happened next is a total mystery to me in the "Why" and "How" department. I found myself grabbing Tifa by the shoulders and kissing her.

On the lips.

In her bar.

Without shitting or pissing on myself. Or even curling up into the fetal position and crying myself to sleep like I did on most nights.

It didn't last long. I wouldn't let it. I pushed away from her and sped out the door. My shades had gotten knocked off in my brief embrace; like Hell was I going back to retrieve them. She kept calling my name but I kept walking. Even on the street I could hear Tifa calling.

What was I thinking? How the hell would I know what it would take to get Tifa to love me willingly. The fence that separated me from the rest was just too high to climb. Or maybe I was too weak to find a way around it.

I still stop and look in the windows from time to time, although I do it now when the bar is crowded and she doesn't have enough time to look out. It's safer this way, in my opinion. I figured it'd be best not to bother trying to waste both of our times when I knew the answer would be "No" right from the get-go. But I had falsely believed that it would be different.

Rule #1 about being a Turk is to never doubt your instincts. I broke Rule #1. I must never let that happen again, even if I am the most loneliest soul on the face of this planet.