she stands outside the intricately carved wooden door and pauses, listening to the bright, ringing tones of laughter intertwined with the strumming of the old spanish guitar playing the balada emanating out from the cracks under the door. the caustic night wind whips her dark curls around her face as she turns around trying to look for someone - someone who had already gone away. there is no one there. she shudders involuntarily and tugs at the warm, brightly colored chal wrapped around her shoulders.

she doesn't want to, but she knows she has to go in. she must dance.

the door is thrown open as if by an unseen force. it tugs at her hand and pulls her inside. she stands there, blinking confusedly at the sudden glare of lights. it doesn't make sense. something is wrong. the chal suddenly feels stiflingly hot and uncomfortable. the music is still playing. people are still laughing, clapping.

but the faces..where were the faces? suddenly, se dio cuenta de que there were no faces on the people. they were just blank canvas, waiting to have features painted on them. who were these people? and why was she here by herself? she spun around again, hard, on her heel. but again, there was no one there. (where was he? why wasn't he coming?)

she didn't want to, but she knew she must dance.

the music takes an abrupt turn out of the dreamy reverie of the balada and immediately plunges into the crisp, staccato rhythm of the malague?a. compelled again, by that force, she steps in time to the music, slowly at first, but then gradually faster and faster. she is becoming enveloped in a cascade of flying rhythms and colors and clapping hands and stomping feet and she is getting dizzy and lightheaded where is he, why isn't he here, she is turning in all directions now but he isn't there, will he ever come back, why did he leave, her pain envelopes her even further, she is being spun in a centrifugal vaccum, she wants to stop, she needs to stop.

but she can't. he isn't here, and she must dance.