The La Belle & The Crook

The La Belle and The Crook | How We Talk About Love.

The La Belle & The Crook 

So. 

We were talking about love. Who finds it. Who ruins it. Who survives it. Like that. Like that! 

And I tell these guys, 

"You think you've seen it all? What about its craze? What about its madness?" 

And they ask, 

"What about it, what about it?" 

So, they wanted a debate, they wanted me to substantiate. And I tell them, 

"Let me tell you about La Belle—the most beautiful girl our university ever saw. And the crook she loved." 

Hmm! La Belle! I can’t forget that. 

Yeah! That’s what we called her. 

Because her real name? Too ordinary. 

She was not ordinary. 

She commanded the air. The sun lit differently upon her. The ground praised her step. 

She walked? Heads turned. She spoke? Silence fell. She smiled? Boys drooled. 

Even lecturers—those wise, old chaps. In her presence, their PhDs were just that—PhDs. They forgot their insights when she entered a room. Their concepts hung in their throats. 

The kicker was, every time someone mentioned her name. As to wonder. As to praise. Someone else would quickly interject— 

"She has a boyfriend!" 

Like a warning. Like a fact. A first-of-all thing. 

The boyfriend? 

The moment you mentioned him, people would light up—"Oh that one!" You didn’t even need to say much. Just a few hints. Everyone knew. He was loud. Everywhere. A walking announcement. 

If there was a crowd, he was at the center. If there was a microphone, he was speaking into it. 

The day I learned of La Belle, I learned of him. The boyfriend. The crook. 

And I learned what he, the crook of a boyfriend, did to her. 

They were a tale too common. One I had somehow missed. Just for a while. 

The hostel knew. The university knew. And now I knew. 

Well, it was not rosy in paradise. It was supposed to be, but it wasn't. The crook's hands—meant for holding—became weapons. 

When he touched La Belle, it was not to hold. It was to claim. Pulling. Jerking. Slapping. Can you imagine? La Belle—the most beautiful girl—and this crook?  

He bruised what he should have adored. What all boys adored and clamoured for. 

Every time he visited her hostel? It ended in shouting. Slamming doors. A scene. 

And sometimes—worse. 

One time? The crook beat her so bad, she was hospitalized for two nights. 

Two nights. Imagine that. 

Her friends whispered. Some said she should leave. Others said, "It’s complicated." 

Complicated? I was about to understand. 

He spent those two nights beside her. Crying. Begging. Holding her hand. 

"Babe, I love you." "Babe, I’m sorry." The crook kept it up for two days. 

"Babe, you make me do this." The crook made it her fault. 

She forgave. And when we heard? We lost our minds. 

And she was careful now. Careful not to upset him. Careful not to say the wrong thing. Careful not to be too friendly. Careful. Careful. Careful. Or he would do it again. 

The most beautiful girl in school. Walking on eggshells. Not to protect herself. But to keep him calm. 

She could have left. But she did not. Why? 

Choosing to stay. 

The bruises faded. 

The whispers died down. 

The story became old news, like tens of others past. 

For a while after the hospital incident, things were quiet. Too quiet. We thought—maybe, just maybe—he had changed. That they'd found peace. 

Then it happened. 

One night. A bar. A crowd alive with noise. Music. Laughter. Drinks spilling. Voices rising. 

I was there. At the counter. A drink in hand. Chatting up friends. Watching the night unfold. 

Then—I saw them. 

They walked in together. She? A vision to behold. Him? Still the same fool—familiar, unsettling. 

They found a table in the corner. His hand on her knee. His eyes on the room. Scanning. Owning. 

At some point, she stood. Walked to the counter. Close. Right beside me. For a moment breathing the same air. 

Just a girl picking up a drink. Or was it to escape? 

And then— 

A man appeared beside her. Not a student. Older. Smoother. A confidence in his stance. 

He said something. She laughed. She smiled. She responded. I exhaled. 

Then, I saw it. I saw him see it. The crook. 

Like a ghost summoned. Like a shadow in the night. 

He was there. 

The boyfriend. Behind her. Too close. 

"What are you doing?" 

She froze. 

Then— 

The slap. 

Loud. Sharp. Public. 

The whole bar felt it. 

Silence rang over the music. Over the drunken haze. Night dwellers. For a moment they stopped, they watched, they noticed, they gazed. 

I felt it. They felt it. 

Then noise again— But different now. Muffled. Uneasy. A crook walked among us. 

And her? 

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t leave. 

He grabbed her wrist. Dragged her back to their table. 

And the night continued. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever does. 

He drank. He flirted. He laughed. 

She sat there. 

Quiet. Still. 

And me? 

I just watched. 

The next day. 

Campus alive. Sun shining. People moving along. Life going on. 

And there they were. 

Together. Laughing. Like nothing had happened. Not even last night. 

She was radiant. He was the same. Hand in hand, walking. 

And me? I just stood there. Watching. Trying to understand. 

I thought about the slap. I thought about her silence. I thought about how the world had moved on. 

Again, she had stayed. She had forgiven. She had carried on like many times before, and more still to come. 

But why? 

Why did she never leave him? 

Why did the most beautiful girl in school, the girl who could have had anyone, stay in the hands that only knew how to hurt? 

Each time, the bruises would fade. The whispers would die. The story would become old news. 

And then— 

There they were again. Another incident. Another story. 

Like clockwork. 

And she would stay, stay. Again and again. 

And me? 

I still wonder why. 

And maybe that’s the tragedy. 

That the most beautiful girl we ever knew—all we could tell of her, is this sad story. 

EzroniX Short Stories – How We Talk About Love.