[Por lo mejor que está por venir]

The atmosphere inside the most popular club in Tijuana is luxurious, dark, and sensual. The architecture of the massive building is particularly intriguing, resembling a restored cathedral transformed into a club for the pleasure of its faithful patrons. Its heavy, baroque stone walls are pierced by enormous stained-glass windows in all shades of precious gems, starting from the sparkling floor and rising to the ceiling like crystalline tarot cards. Tall, metallic columns adorned with colorful ribbons of lights support the dimly blackened ceiling, where modern projectors are mounted on sturdy beams. From these projectors a dazzling kaleidoscopic illumination emanates, painting everything in the most psychedelic hues: red and blue, yellow, purple, and green rays, along with fiery violet, rhythmically dancing to the music.

Isabel takes my hand in hers with sisterly tenderness. "How about a drink?" she says.

"Wait, what are we drinking exactly?" I ask.

"English tea," she offers with a mockingly playful tone, attempting her own version of a British accent. It's not very good. "Oh, come on, Catalina! Alcohol. We're having alcohol. Duh!" Her hand, holding mine, gently draws a small circle on the back of my palm, a comforting caress. "I want you relaxed, sexy, and sensual. I want you happy," she says. Her thumb leaving an imperceptible mark on my palm, a gesture, a message. "Alluring like a siren. So much so that Salma Hayek would eat up her implants, were she to see you!"

Her words coax a suppressed laugh out of me. "I don't know, Isa. I think Salma's silicone is safe for the night. All I can think about is papá, and how I shouldn't have left him alone. I shouldn't be here without–"

Isabel playfully shakes my hand, back and forth, like an earthquake with a magnitude of five. "Come on, mijita. Papá said he wants you to enjoy yourself for once. He knows you deserve it more than anyone," she urges. "Loosen up already!"

"I will, I promise I will."

"Muy bien."

In the darkness and artificial mist, Isabel's dress glows like a lighthouse in the night. I follow her, giving my full attention to not losing her amidst the whirlwind of kaleidoscopic lights pulsating like living hearts. The club's air is filled with colored smoke and glitter. Dancers sway all around us, lost in an ocean of intoxication, amidst hypnotic melodies, and their partners. Girls fling their long, dark hair, and boys move their hips in their tight pants. Their faces shine, and their naked limbs glisten with sweat and excitement. Life pours out of them in waves of energy, flooding everything and everyone, including me.

"Do you dance?" Two young men with sun-kissed skin and warm smiles manage to stand out from the dancing crowd and approach us, hoping for a little more action.

"Not tonight, chicos," Isabel promptly rejects the offer, motioning for them to step aside. "Lo siento," she adds in a sweet but feigned tone that suggests she isn't sorry at all.

My sister leads the way once more, holding my hand tight not to let anyone come between us. "Men..." she mutters with mock disdain.

Men. The way she says it implies that, oh, men are such hopeless creatures, unteachable... I respond to her accusation with a little smile. Isabel likes men, quite a lot actually. Under different circumstances, the two young men might have stood a good chance of having that one dance they asked for. Maybe more than a dance. Unfortunately for them, in this particular case, Isabel only has one target tonight, and his name is Don Leopoldo Cortez. A new patron she must charm. Important man. Businessman. With influence and connections. And a big, fat wallet Victor, Isabel's boss and proud club owner, wishes to have around.

After much patience, pushing, and numerous prayers to the Almighty, Isabel and I manage to reach the elusive heart of Cielo Nocturno, where the bar reigns –a long, imposing structure spanning several meters, entirely made of glass and steel, cutting through the vast club like a sparkling giant blade.

Isabel takes her place on a tall stool and gestures for me to sit beside her. I do and we both gaze at the three bartenders, who seem like Destiny's Child incarnate. They're flawless, with ebony skin, incredibly alluring and curvaceous silhouettes adorned in tiny leather outfits that cling provocatively to their bodies, and long braids cascading down their slender backs, gradually changing colors from black to indigo blue and deep purple.

They move gracefully behind the bar, in front of a metal structure of long shelves. Exquisite glass bottles, transparent flasks, and intricately designed pitchers of various shapes and sizes line up there. The three girls trail their long fingers along the shelves, stopping in front of each requested item by the customers and serving drinks in tall, colorful glasses, instantly dying their contents with the most exotic shades –blood-red, hydrocyanic blue, and poisonous green.

"What can I do ya for?" One of them, probably Kelly Rowland of the trio, asks.

"Eeerm..." I hesitate. Not going out often, I haven't developed specific drinking preferences. This means every time I face the dilemma of choosing a drink, I'm overwhelmed. I usually have no clue what to order. Embracing my ignorance, I let the bartender go through the entire menu and, adopting my most thoughtful look, I randomly picking something.

"We– we'll have–" I stammer once more, ready to ask for my usual explanation.

"Tequila lemon," Isabel intervenes, leaning casually over the bar and extending both palms towards the bartender with her fingers stretched out. "Shots. Ten of them. ¡Gracias, mi amor!"

Ten small, yellow-green shots, only slightly larger than thimbles, quickly line up on the bar in front of us. Isabel hands me one and takes another for herself. "Saludos!" She grins mischievously, raising her hand in a toast. "Por lo mejor que está por venir!"

"To the best that is yet to come, Isa," I agree. Our glasses clink and I bring mine to my lips, downing the liquid inside in one go, as if it were some elixir of courage. Maybe it is. God knows I need it.

This place is my own idea of chaos. I am nervous here, out of place. The sense that I should be somewhere else comes back intensified. This is far from my usual scene. There are too many sweaty bodies here, countless strangers, the music is too loud, the lights too bright. I can't remember the last time I was in a place like this.

By morning, I work as a cleaner and my sister stays at home to care for our wonderful, sick father. Noel Ferreiro was always there for us when we needed him, raising us on his own, loving and cherishing us. Now that old age and sickness make it difficult for him to sustain himself, it's our turn to return the favor. By evening, I return home and Isabel comes here. We both help and contribute as much as we can. I do my best with the meafer earnings from my morning job, while Isabel does the same with her night occupation. The money an exotic dancer for the Mexican elite makes is no match for a humble cleaner like myself, and I certainly wish I could do more, but at least, it's honest work. Can Isabel say the same? Maybe, maybe not. I am not sure what her career entails. Lap dances? Pole? Strip Tease? Sexual favors for the rich? None of the above, I hope. But I can't be sure. All I have seen, all she has let me see, is some choreography she prepares at home. Is that all? I don't know. All I know is that Isabel sits by my side in the vibrant chaos of Cielo Nocturno, shining like the light of my life that she is.

Isabel raises another glass, beckoning me to join her. "!Ey, tu! C'mon, come, come. Drink with me."

I don't waste another second. I raise my glass, too, taking a brave swig, feeling as if liquid fire is coursing down my throat. "Ay! Dios mio, hermanita!" I exclaim. "Why are we doing this to ourselves? It burns like hell. How do people drink this?"

Isabel chuckles. "While grimacing less. Practise. You'll get there."

"I will?"

She nods reassuringly and stands up. "Alright, I gotta bounce. I wasn't lying to Raul before. My leotard does take forever to put on. I think it's the hips. Has my tushy grown bigger? Be honest."

"Brutally honest?"

"Brutally."

"Jennifer Lopez would rip out her BBL were she to see you."

Isabel bursts into laughter, thoroughly amused. "Of course she would. My ass is to die for!"

We do two more shots. As my face contracts, Isabel slams her glass down with an assertiveness that speaks volumes, an unspoken proclamation stating that a) her bum bum is the bomb, b) it's time to get going. A swift kiss graces my cheek, a fleeting connection charged encouragement, before she departs towards the awaiting stage. Her silhouette disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone in the midst of the throbbing energy.

Suddenly, I am very, very conscious of how pitiful I must look sitting alone at the bar. Who does that? Alcoholics. Desperate people. Broken ups. Sociopaths. Weirdos. I don't fall into any of those categories. Curious glances are aimed my way, signaling it's time for me to move, go mingle, stop standing out. I hate to stand out. I wish I could be invisible. That'd be nice.

My gaze sweeps over the dimly lit room, a sanctuary of throbbing energy and charged sensuality. The dance floor teems with youthfulness and revelry, each movement a declaration of vitality. That's the place to be.

🌹