In the smoky darkness, my features were hidden except for the amber glow of chain smoked cigarettes and the spit-shined toes of hand-tooled leather slip-ons. Jose Quervo, a solitary shot glass and me, all sit empty at the table, waiting for my Spanish dancer. A cone of smoke streaked incandescence revealed a small stage waiting to feel the soft stroke of smooth slippers. A guitar strummed the air and she appeared, shoulders bare, arms diamond gracefully over her head. Jet hair pulled tight, her lids snapped open beaming black heat. Beneath the flared and split carmine sheath, smooth copper began to flow rhythmically, wantonly. A flash red swirls, floats, stirs the warm strings and my blood, lifting my heart, quaking my soul, freeing my passion. Quervo numbness flees, ashamed and embarrassed as onyx eyes lock to mine, puncturing my pain releasing it in a swirl of crimson color and clicking castanets as my ardor awaits patiently, for my Spanish dancer.