The thunderstorm was spent, and the angry clouds had fled to the west with the approach of the sun towards the horizon, clearing the stage for a spectacular sunset of golden yellow and crimson red. The air was warm and wet in the taverna, heavy, but invigorating and full of life. The ice that now clinked unaccompanied in the bottom of my glass was a welcome relief from the warmth, and it gathered condensation to the outside of the tumbler, where it slid to the dull polish of the bar, leaving the glass adrift in a Lilliputian sea.

Patrons drifted in, some alone, some in twos or threes. Mostly locals, by the looks of them, unshaven and surly. As dusk deepened, so too did the crowds, and soon there were groups of tourists, and the odd drifter. And me.

The taverna was quite large, and fairly clean, due to its proximity to the well traveled tourist routes. Roughly hewn wooden tables were scattered around the room, surrounding a central area cleared of furniture. Bare wooden beams supported the low slung ceiling, and the walls were rendered in a yellowy-cream stucco, and adorned with various knick-knacks. The bar sat against the rear wall, which displayed to the room an impressive array of spirits, bottle upon bottle lined up neatly on thin wooden shelves. The top of the bar itself was also wooden, once highly polished, but now the surface was worn bare in places. The stools at the bar were a simple affair, four legs, a seat, and a slight wobble that caused a dull clunk against the black stone of the floor when I shifted my weight. To my left sat a lone man, in a dirty yellow polyester jacket, and threadbare jeans. He had been nursing the same beer sullenly for over an hour, and it was still barely depleted, much to the annoyance of the stoutly built owner and his young barmaids. To my right sat a young American couple, leaning close to each other and talking in low voices, giggling to each other over their drinks.

I enter into such a detailed description now for two reasons. The first is that I find the scene fixed perfectly in my mind to the last detail, and the second is that all of that unnecessary detail will, I fear, be absent from the recollection of the events to follow.

I would love to say that I turned the moment she walked into the room, but alas, I cannot. I seem to recall feeling a charge grow in the air, but as I was facing away from the door, I cannot directly connect it to her entrance. The first I knew of her was her smell. Over the alcohol and the thin haze of smoke, it drifted to me; it was the scent of juniper berries and wild desert flowers, in counterpoint to an earthy, primal essence. I would have turned. I would have leapt from my seat and ran into the streets to find the owner of that smell. But, before I had turned my head halfway, I felt the brush of hair across my back and shoulder. I froze as a figure leaned half across me to accept a drink offered by the barman, her breast brushing lightly against the bare skin of my right arm. Her face turned back toward me, and offered an enchanting smile. It was about this time that my senses managed to sort themselves out, and began to take stock of the situation. They barely had enough time to voice their disbelief at the fullness of her lips and the smoothness of her skin when they were arrested by her deep green eyes, and fell once more into disarray. I did not speak, which is perhaps for the best, considering I would not have been capable of more than an unintelligible squeak. Rallying a second defense, my senses managed to recommend a smile, which I produced without too much effort, given that had I been standing my knees would have buckled under me. Our eyes were still locked, and neither of us had moved an inch. Having used this time to regain control of my voice, I opened my lips to say something, but in a whirl of red fabric, black trim, and dark brown hair, she was gone. I span on my stool, desperate to arrest her departure, but once more I found myself unable to move, or even give voice to my protests. I could do naught but stare as I watched her walk away across the room. Her hair, the colour of black walnut, spilled over her shoulders and streamed down her back nearly to her waist, swinging and bouncing jovially with her step. That selfsame waist swayed to a complex rhythm like a hypnotist's pocket watch, stirring in my own heart that same rhythm. She wore a dress of pleated red fabric, edged in a black trim, and her legs, which for the sake of the reader's sanity it is best not to dwell on, ended in feet clad in black heels. She approached a crowd of people, which swelled to welcome her, then contracted, blocking her from view.

For a long time, I kept track of her progress around the room, always on the edge of my seat. I was hesitant to approach such a siren, but even that hesitation had its limits. If she had made for the door, I would have gone after her. On the contrary, though, she flitted from table to table, talking and laughing with the patrons. The locals all seemed to know her, and the men appeared to accept her as an equal. I did not feel comfortable staring so openly, but of course I could never look away for long. Occasionally when my eyes turned back to her, it seemed that only moments ago her own eyes had been on me, but I never caught their gaze. I do not know how long passed, but I do know I spent the whole time trying to empty her glass by the force of my will alone, so she would return to the bar, but it seemed as though she held a lake in that glass. When finally she drained the last drops, my heart leapt to my throat, but one of the men at the table she was currently visiting rose, to hearty pats on his back by his fellows, and made his way to the bar to purchase a round for his entire table. Crestfallen, and temporarily beaten, I spun back to the bar, ordered another drink, and sat staring into the glass.

It was not long before a cheer rose from the crowds at my back and, curiosity piqued, I turned to seek its cause. My eyes gravitated immediately to her face, but seeing the direction of her gaze, I followed it to see a man returning from some back room with a guitar under his arm. He procured a stool from the bar with his free hand as he made his way toward the centre of the room. He set the stool down near one corner of the open area, perched upon it, and began to tune his instrument. Another cheer rose from the crowd, and searching for her once more, I saw that she was standing, and proceeding to the direct centre of the room. Once there, she fished a pair of castanets from some hidden pocket, then stood quiescent, head bowed. There was silence save for the sound of a tuning guitar. The room settled into stillness as the man tuned his last note, and damped the vibrations of the strings with his hand. A clacking rhythm began, and she rose her hands level with her head. Time paused for a moment, then the guitar began to play, and she began to dance.

I have no words to describe either the twisting, whirling frenzy in my chest or the twisting, whirling frenzy played out in front of my eyes. However, as it is integral to the tale, I will attempt to bedeck a few phrases in its likeness; simply be aware they are is as pyrite is to gold. The music grew, layer upon layer, into a complex, almost organic thing. Steady, measured steps building into a twisting chaos. And as the music played, so too did she dance.

She strutted and span, and leapt and twirled. Simple movements, together forming a dance whose steps I could not follow. She let the music fill her, pulse through her veins, then pour forth in this torrent of movement. I ached to be the music, or to be the dance. To be so wild and free; to become one with her, filled with joy at the emotion of life. In a moment all the world was gone. There was nothing but her. I could not even see the room around us. To this day, everything else is transparent, unreal. There is no point in even pretending I knew anything of the time that passed. I watched her legs, deliberate and unpredictable. I watched her arms, twirling gracefully, and her hands, still keeping that staccato beat on the castanets. Her hair swayed free, mimicking her movements, ever trying to catch up with its mistress. Rather than hide her figure, the constantly shifting fabric of her dress revealed it, like an image in a zoetrope, or a chameleon amongst the branches; a flickering truth, revealed only in motion. She danced, I know not whether for minutes or for hours. But, in all that time, I did not breathe, nor did I blink. As her movements slowed, then stopped, the world flowed back around me, but dimmer somehow, and colourless. I felt a great sense of loss at the halting of that dance. A loss made twofold by the knowledge that I was lost to her forever.

Around me people were clapping and cheering; I still found it hard to move. She turned a slow circle, and I believe that she looked every person present directly in the eyes. I yearned for that look, but dreaded the indifference that it might carry. Finally, she stopped, and it took a heartbeat to realise that she had stopped facing me. She was looking straight at me, and once more the world around me faded into insignificance. Our eyes were locked. I could not tear away, nor did I want to, for to do so would have been to rend my soul asunder. My body stood up, and my legs walked across the floor towards her. How I avoided tripping on the tables and people in between, I do not know, for I was caught as though in a dream. I halted when I reached her, so close as to be almost touching. I was lost in my senses: the smell of her, the sight of her, the sound of her breathing, even the taste of her in the air. Her hands reached out, bridging the slight distance between us, and locked with mine. The circuit closed, and everything sharpened beyond belief.

The music began again. I heard it ring out clearly through the room, but more than that, I felt it flood and throb through my muscles, full and richly toned. It flowed from my hands to hers, and from hers to mine, winding around us and drawing us together as one: her, me, and the music. The music danced and, helpless to its lure, so did we.

Some time later, I do not know how long, the dance had stopped, and so too had those which had followed it. We stood, her and I, alone in the crowd, holding each other as close as we could. I reached a hand out to brush away a loose hair that draped across her face, then, oh so slowly, leaned in closer still to kiss her on those warm, wet lips. The kiss lasted so long that by the end of it I would swear it had been her breath sustaining me, and mine sustaining her. Regretfully I pulled back, but only so far as to let me look into her eyes.

That night was years ago, but it seems like a lifetime. There has not been a night since that she has not filled my dreams. And, writing this, my fingers yearn to once more caress her soft skin. But, alas, they cannot. For she sleeps peacefully beside me, and I do not wish to wake her.