Photo by Vitor Pinto on Unsplash

They would tumble through the door soon. It was the one class of the week Leticia didn’t look forward to teaching. Still, a girl needed to pay the rent.

Right on time black sedans pulled in front of the building and released the young girls. They exploded into the space jabbering and calling to each other as they filed into the dressing room swapping street clothes for long flowing skirts. They filtered into the studio milling around as the hour approached.

“Ladies, ladies,” Leticia called, clapping to gain their attention. “We will start now.”

Music played, and the girls mimicked the choreographed steps. Leticia following their languid arm movements, their anemic stomps, and sloppy footwork. The ladies led privileged lives, sent to her class to occupy their time while their parents worked. She knew they didn’t really want to take part, but their lack of passion wounded her. Her heart ached for them.

She stopped the music, tears in her eyes as she faced them.

“Flamenco is about emotions,” Leticia clenched her fist and let her frustration explode in her words.  “I see no feelings, not joy, not despair. There is not love in your movements,” she relaxed her hand, her sweeping gesture expressing volumes, “or even hate, or anger, or grief. Nada. You give me meaningless movement.”

Her palm rested like a butterfly above her heart, her head dropped in reverence. The music began again, and her fingers fluttered to the beat. Softly, first, the intensity grew, the butterfly changed, transforming into heavy, powerful beats coursing through her body.

“It starts with the fire, profundo en tu corazón. Siente lo que vive allí.”

The girls followed Leticia, feeling their fire, they listened with their hearts. And they danced.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer