Flamenco is Life
Estella fastened big silver hoops in her ears and stared at her reflection in the mirror. At the base of her neck, her coal black hair coiled into a tight bun on one side, a large white rose pinned securely next to the bun. She smiled at the woman staring back at her. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. She stood, picking up the white shawl draped over the back of the chair and flipped it over her shoulder. The ends of the shawl trickled down the jet-black slip dress that skimmed her body. Without thinking, she flipped her foot moving the long-ruffled train that formed the bottom of the dress out of her way. She was ready.
Tension filled her, the expectation rising in her soul. This was the feeling she lived for. Estella left her dressing room the taps of her shoes clicking out a syncopated beat as she made her way to the stage. The muted sounds of Ramon’s guitar pulsated from behind the stage doors. Flinging the doors open the canción andalucia broke over her, swirled around her, beckoned her forward, promising so much more. The dancer finished in a flourish of zapateado perfectly timed with the culmination of the increasing tempo and the articulated legato of the guitar.
The crowd applauded as the breathless dancer bowed in appreciation then left the stage. Estella waited offstage as the notes echoed in her body, churning through her before they faded leaving a dull emptiness, a longing. She stepped onto the stage.
Head bowed, her body relaxed, she waited. Ramon picked the strings softly, tentatively releasing notes to wake her. The music touched her, sending shivers over her skin, but still she waited. The words of the canción gitana reached into her soul, calling to her ancestors. Her hand lifted flowing and rising with the swell of the music. Her toe tapped following the beat. The music instructed her, guided her body’s interpretation of the words. Emotions flashed across her face.
Her feet drilled into the floor, reverberating through the hall, pounding into other chests. The words told the story of lovers. Her shawl protected her from his smoldering glances, teased him with glimpses of his desire. Eyes locked, the intensity grew. She turned away, turning predator into prey. Transformed the shawl became the lover. Passion matched with passion, music quickened, breath quickened. Estella became the music, she was the song, the lover from the legend. The competition raced them towards the culmination. Her heart exploded, emotions boomed around the room.
Silence. It hung in the air. The jaleo was done.
Estella knew they wanted more.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer