La Plaza

This is the other of the two pieces I wrote for my friend with the flamenco

A crowd was gathering across the plaza from the stall he was stood beside. He hadn't noticed to start with, just the odd person or couple making their way over and then the faint hum that can be heard when a great many people are muttering at once. The hum was becoming gradually louder, loud enough that odd words could be picked out.

"Dancer... Chile... Rosa..."

The name Rosa made him look up sharply. Not his Rosa, surely not. Curiosity got a hold of him and he felt his feet carry him across the plaza towards the gathering crowd. He pushed his way to the front, despite the protests, eager to see if he was right.

Then he saw her, olive skin glowing under the midday sun. The only woman he had ever known to show that much skin and escape the slander that would be spread about anyone else.

She hadn't seen him yet, she was speaking with the guitarist, maybe he could still slip away unnoticed. Just as he turned to make his escape she flung her head back in that high, tinkling laugh that had always captivated him. He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face her once again.

She had taken up position in the centre of her makeshift dance floor; skirt in hands, elbows high, one hand at the base of her back, the other hiding the smile he knew was dancing about her full, red lips.

The guitarist began to play and the crowd clapped and catcalled in anticipation. She stamped her right foot, once, twice, three times, and spun her wrists in circles, each time coming to rest with her fingers flourishing elegantly.

She switched her arms and stomped her left foot, mirroring herself, before taking off around the floor. She spun at a speed not possible for most humans, hands and feet blurring into a black and red swirl of skirts and jewels, the only thing remaining constant was the flash of her startlingly white teeth and the deep red rose at her throat.

She was approaching his position in the crowd. He tried to hide behind the robust woman to his right but it was too late; she had already seen him. She flung her long, black curls over one shoulder and gave him a long, slow wink as she slowed in front of him to repeat the beginning of her piece in time with the chorus of the music.

He ducked his head to avoid meeting her eyes but still her stamping feet held him, as if in a trance. She let out an almost animalistic cry as she set off once more around the plaza, the rings on her fingers glinting.

She completed her circuit and made her way back to the centre of the floor where she dropped her skirts and produced a pair of fans from within the folds. She flicked them around her head and hips at a lightning speed, feet dancing in time. Someone in the crowd produced castanets and began to play along, several others were stamping and clapping.

Caught up in the atmosphere he found himself spinning across the floor to fall to one knee in front of her, adopting the pose of the matador he knew so well. Some members of the audience cried out in protest, whilst others evidently thought it was all a part of the act and cheered him on.

If she was thrown at all by his appearance she hid it well, her smile only faltering or a fraction of a second before she continued with her new found partner.

He spun up from the floor to steal one of her fans and take her hand. Together they made another lap of the floor, feet and hands moving in such perfect unison it was as though nothing had ever changed between them.

They finished to an applause which echoed off the walls of the nearby buildings and stood, panting, facing each other. Five years of unspoken words said in mere minutes of dance.

He opened his mouth in a feeble attempt to put his feelings into words but she silenced him with a smile and a kiss to the cheek.

"Thank you" the words, heavy with her thick accent, said all that would ever need to be said. The crowd was already dispersing as he took her hand gently in his and led her away.