My mouth is tart with the taste of sangria lingering on the backs of my teeth.Hands are clapping.
Spanish melodies are swimming through the air.
And up on stage, she dances.
She is an exercise in contrasts. Her face is cold, focused, disdainful, yet she moves passionately, with fire.
She could rip someone's heart out and stomp it to pieces on the hard floor without batting a lash and somehow make it look tempting to hand over your own.
He whispers to me "I can't tell if she is improvising or this is routine."
I murmur back "Isn't that the magic?"
I am envious of her feet. They take every step with utter certainty. Even if she only decided a moment prior the place in which they were landing, they hit the floor with the conviction of a thousand times practiced. As though she has profound confidence that every instant is exactly as it should be.
I want feet like this. Feet that sense where they are going, and even if a puddle appears before them, or they take a wrong turn, they do not pause-- they artfully swerve, without missing a beat. They do not stop to ponder the implications of the next step. They do not wonder if they should have detoured two blocks ago, or if it was worth the bother to even put on shoes today. They just trust the force propelling them to move.