An old Spanish guitar spoke of love and broken hearts as it’s strings played a melancholic Flamenco. At the corner of the bar Carlos sat nursing a beer, listening to his story. He had known that pain and yet he wished for love to greet him once more.
“Maybe tonight she’ll walk through the front door and smile at me and the dance will begin once more!” He raised his glass then shook his head.
“A fool’s dream!”, spoke the guitar.
“Bartender, another please!”
“This one is on the house! You are not alone! Most if not all of the men here feel the same pain! They are here to forget or maybe to remember! Why are you here?”
“Me? I’m here wishing, hoping, waiting!”
The tapping of shoes and the clattering of castanets grabbed his attention. She had come. Not through the front door but on to the stage from the long red curtains. She wore black with hints of gold.
Ruby red adorned her lips and her eyes called wantonly upon all who gazed at her and the men forgot their pain.
“Vamos mi niña! Baila preciosa!” Came shouts from the crowd as she turned and swayed.
“Don’t look at her! Turn your eyes away!” warned the bartender.
“She is the child of the devil! Her and her brother, that old Spanish guitar!”
“Why warn me and not the others?”
“It is my penance! I can not save them. Watch is all I can do as their souls are consumed. You still have hope and dreams. Leave I beg of you!”
Carlos payed no heed.
Her eyes locked onto his and he could feel her fire.
“Out of my way! Move!” He screamed and pushed.
From the crowd, a knife was brandished.
His life slowly oozing, Carlos looked for her but she was gone. The old Spanish guitar spoke of pain and broken hearts. It played his song.