Cantina Confidential | Secretos de Cantina
"A bartender hears everyone's secrets but keeps her own until the right woman asks"
Cantina Confidential
Secretos de Cantina
Everyone told me their secrets. That's what bartenders are for.
"What's your secret?" she asked—the only customer who'd ever asked that.
"I don't have secrets. I collect them."
"Everyone has secrets."
Her name was Valeria. She came every Friday, ordered mezcal, and watched me work.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"Someone hiding."
"Behind what?"
"The bar. The bottles. The job that lets you stay anonymous."
She was right. I'd spent years listening to avoid being heard.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
"Because you look lonely. And loneliness recognizes itself."
I told her my secret one slow night. The heartbreak that drove me here. The fear that I'd never feel again.
"That's not a secret," she said. "That's a wound."
"Same thing."
"No. Secrets are hidden by choice. Wounds hide to survive. You're surviving."
She kissed me after closing. The cantina empty, the bottles silent, the secrets suspended.
"Now I have a new secret," I said.
"Or a new beginning. Your choice."
I chose beginning. Chose her. Chose telling instead of just listening.
"To confessions," we toast now.
"To the woman who finally heard me," I add.
Cantina confidential—where secrets find voice, and the best listener becomes the one who speaks.