Flamenco

It is built with graceful lines and a sense of control over its body.  With every turn of the steering wheel, every prod of the accelerator, every change of the gears, it obeys commands like a graceful, passionate ballerina following the beat of the music.

It starts, with that distinctive twang.  The door closes like castanets that crash together as musician and dancer become one.  The musician's anger, his passion, direct the dancer through her routine, gracefully drifting from corner to corner.  She moves with controlled, yet forceful élan, tires and brakes and shocks and steering knuckles exchanging glide for grip every other centimeter.  Cascades of red mud, dust, and gravel flow from behind her, like so much dress skirting.  At times her feet slide across the stage, and at times her heavy, black shoes rap upon its uneven surface, crashing onto it with an impact that astounds and surprises all who witness, including the musician.

His fingers caress the strings of his guitar, urging the dancer on, and she responds in kind.  Her pace quickens as his passion plucks out a still-faster tune.  Her feet slip and catch calculatedly, her body turning more drastically, her red-mud skirt surging from behind her.  His fingers play a pizzicato on his guitar, sweat and stress flowing from his body into the music, as she follows, ever so diligently and with still more gusto.  At last, with his hands flying up and down and over the guitar, she revs and spins and twists and rotates and gyrates and swivels and pivots on her feet, again gracefully alternating between freewheel and tread on the dirt, until in an excruciating climax, both dancer and musician collapse in fiery zenith.

She stands, knees quivering.  He takes her by the hand, his fingers raw and blistered, and leads her home.