Night In the Palm of Her Hand

           A man walked through the entrance with hair combed back, blazer, beautiful leather shoes and that Spanish smirk that is both charming and somewhat unnerving.  He pulled a wicker chair from the wall and situated himself comfortably upon its flimsy legs, tuning the guitar in his hands, moving the capo up and down the frets. The lights dimmed as a second man walked in. Hair in a bun, black turtleneck, suit jacket, sleek black shoes. He gracefully whisked a second chair from the wall and quietly placed it next to the guitar player. He then smoothed his hands together, musical vibrations emanating from the friction between fingers, as he nodded toward the guitar. With each pluck of the guitar string, a sound made its way through my jacket and ran a finger down my spine. The pace picked up and the black turtleneck held one hand loosely against the other and lightly clapped as he prepared to raise his voice.

            His voice sounded like la tierra and dusk, like wine at two in the morning, and crumbling buildings. His voice did not follow the guitar and the guitar did not follow his voice. It was a dance between the two, an organic thing. When they stopped, and smiled, I became aware of my surroundings again, how the men shifted their eyes to the ground and then toward the door.

            A woman walked in, as if she held the night in the palm of her hand. Hair in a snake-black braid, flower by her ear, shirt tight like paint on her torso, full skirt, and those flamenco shoes. The men began again, seamlessly as if time itself had stopped in anticipation. And just as the room was sucked forward, another pair of flamenco shoes, belonging to a stern, young man, lightly tapped across the room and took a seat next the black turtleneck. He brought his hands together, letting the friction transmute into music.

           She dared us. She struck the ground and ran cracks to the center of the earth. Just her. Alone. On the stage moving in circles as she told the music what to do. It was as if she were striking marble with the heel of her foot, it giving way to the sorrow in her face. And she looked so sad, like she was knocking the earth trying not to cry. Each dramatic turn of her neck sent the music crashing like waves against the feet of the audience. She gracefully picked up her skirts so we could see the speed at which she hit the floor, becoming the notes of music in the air. She pulled energy from us, breathing it in until her feet were moving with such speed, arcing across the floor–and the clapping and the guitar rising in succession– until the room was spilling over with it all. She pulled energy from the strings, from the cracks in their hands, from the cracked earth itself. Red flares of color seemed to strike like lightening in the darkness as her skirt wrapped its feathery hands around her legs. Just as it was almost too much, she stopped, the music stopped, and she dropped her sorrow like river stones to the ground.