For Saturday, Day 6 of OQ Prompt Party 2018.
Prompt #161 - An English man's heart is stolen by a Flamenco dancer on a visit to Spain.
She is fire, and Robin wants to be burned.
He'd been wandering the streets of Sevilla for a couple of days when he'd stumbled into this bar. A little hole-in-the-wall kind of place that lacks the loud, festive flair of every other establishment in its vicinity, more interested in serving well-seasoned locals than the endless stream of tourists. He'd liked it right off the bat, liked that it didn't try to prove itself to anyone, that it existed in its own corner of time and space and remained there, unmoved and unchanged while its clients filtered in and out as they've done for years.
He'd found it purely by mistake, if truth be told. He'd just been looking for a place to use the loo, but after he'd made use of the facilities, the expert strum of a guitar and a deep, rumbling Olé had stopped him from leaving.
The stage lights had come on, a man sitting and tapping on a hollow wooden box in time with the exquisite melody of the guitar, a slow, building rhythm that warmed and grew as the voice of the cantaor told the story of the one that got away.
And then she'd stepped on stage, hands poised above her head, her back turned to the audience as she began her dance, and if he hadn't already been enchanted by the grace with which she moved, Robin is sure the expression on her face would've hooked him.
He's been coming to the bar every night since, even bailed on his scheduled trip to Barcelona, choosing instead to remain here, admiring her as she moves across the wooden stage, her face conveying an endless array of emotion as she stamps rhythmically on the floor. No two nights are the same, he's been coming here for a week and knows she adds a little something new to her every performance. Her arms are like wings, carrying her from one end of the stage to the other as she gives new life and meaning to a song he saw her dance just the day before. And in all this time he's been too afraid to meet her, leaving just as her show ends and leaving a hefty tip for his barkeep without a single word.
Tonight, though, tonight someone else dances instead of her, and she's good, marvelous, really, but she's nowhere near as captivating as the woman in the red dress. He looks for her, but she's nowhere to be seen, and loathe as he is to admit his infatuation to a stranger, he can't help but ask the barkeep about her.
The man laughs knowingly at him, shaking his head and gesturing for him to wait while he walks out of the bar and towards the dressing rooms, leaving one of the busboys to hold up the fort. The poor lad has served a surprising amount of drinks in the five minutes it takes the barkeep to appear, a vision in red walking just behind him. She's even more beautiful up close, with brown, melancholic eyes that he's sure can see into his soul, crimson lips that match the shade of her dress, the ruffles of which bounce almost elegantly as she smiles at him and asks, "Enrique says you needed to talk to me?"
He's never heard her speak before, other than the Gracias she mouths to her audience as she bows at the end of every show, and it startles him to hear the American accent on her.
Robin has no idea where he finds his wits, but somehow he's able to reply, telling her how glad he is that he doesn't have to speak his botched Spanish to communicate with her. He introduces himself, shaking her hand and offering, "Robin Locksley, at your service."
She smiles, her dark curls falling over her face as she teases, "And how can I help you, Robin Locksley?"
"I just... wanted to tell you I... quite admire your work," he says, and he's sure he's blushing, but he hopes she can tell he's sincere. "I was sad you weren't up there tonight. Not that I'd ever begrudge you a night off, I'd imagine this is quite a demanding job."
"Quite," she agrees with a nod, arms crossing over her chest. "And thank you."
"No thanks necessary. You are... quite magnificent up there."
"Is that why you've been here for the past five nights?" she asks then, and at his How did you— she adds, "Enrique never forgets a face."
Oh. Well, cat's out the bag then, isn't it?
He grins sheepishly at her. "I suppose there's no point in denying it, then, is there?" he asks, and she shakes her head with another laugh, her posture relaxing slightly as she looks him up and down, an appreciative smile forming on her face.
She takes a seat on the stool right next to him, her skirt swishing this way and that as she asks, "What brings you to España, Robin Locksley? Business or pleasure?" and there's this hint of interest in her eyes, a little spark that compliments the seductive quality of her smile, that warms him from head to toe.
"I'm on a family trip with my brothers, as a matter of fact," he answers. "Though they're in Barcelona at the moment. I, uh... decided to stick around for a little while longer."
"Oh?" she prods, and she's leaning in close as she listens to him talk, those dark eyes drawing him in as he throws caution to the wind and escalates their little flirtation.
"Yes, well, you see, there's this girl I haven't been able to stop thinking about..." he says, winking so that there's no doubt that that girl is her. "Saw her one night, dancing her heart out, and I haven't gotten her out of my head since."
"Is that so?" she grins, and he's surprised to see that she's blushing.
"I don't even know her name," Robin presses, "but she's... stunning, in every way, and I'd quite like to get to know her, maybe buy her a drink?"
"Hmm. Sounds like you have your work cut out for you," she teases, and it makes him laugh, has him wanting to find out more about her.
"What part of America are you from?" he starts. An easy question, something that'll hopefully get her to stay and keep talking.
"Brooklyn. Born and raised," she says proudly. "Where in England do you hail from, kind sir?"
He laughs at her horrible British accent, and answers, "London. Boring, I know."
"No, not at all, I love it there," she hurries to reassure him, her hand landing on his arm, and he says nothing of it, but feels his skin tingling where she touches it.
"So you've been?" he asks then, and she nods.
"Once, a few years ago. I was a History major in college. Of course I love London."
"I suppose for a history buff it has its draw," he admits, smiling at her. Her hand has left him, and he misses the warmth of her touch. "How long have you lived in Spain?"
"Eight years," she answers. "Came for an internship during my last semester of college and then I just... couldn't bear to leave."
"And how does a History student from Brooklyn become so well versed in the art of Flamenco?" he asks then, interested.
"I came here to study the middle eastern influences in Spanish culture throughout the years, the dance was part of it. I wasn't planning on learning it, but I was curious about it, so I took a class just to see how it was done and I..." she turns, looking wistfully at the stage as she finishes, "I just fell in love with it."
"It shows," he commends. "When you dance, it's like you're in your own little world, telling a story with your movements. It's beautiful to watch."
She smiles then, thanking him, and he waves her off, insisting he's being nothing but truthful.
"Do you have a favorite number?" she asks him then. "You've seen them plenty of times now, you must have a preference."
"The rumba," he says immediately. "I like that it's not choreographed, that you just dance in whatever way you feel the music."
"Noted," she says.
"I like the way you move your hands," he adds then, "quite lovely."
"I can teach you that," she tells him.
"You won't tell me your name, but you'll teach me how to Flamenco?" he asks, smirking as he raises an eyebrow at her.
She waves him off, ordering, "Give me your hand," and taking it before she's even done saying the words, raising it in front of him and then doing the same with hers.
"You have to think of it as if you're grabbing an apple," she says, circling her wrists and crooking her fingers delicately. "See? I bring the apple to me..." she repeats the movement, curling her hand inward, then outward as she says, "...and now I'm letting the apple fall. In... and out."
Robin tries to mimic her movement, feeling the bones of his wrist crack as he circles them inward, then outward, inward, then outward, and that part is easy enough, but where her fingers curve gracefully, flowing as they go in with her wrist and then out, his are choppy, and look more like a claw than the effortless curl she's showing him.
"I look like a clumsy lobster," he jokes, and delights in the sound of her laugh.
"You're actually not bad for a beginner, you just a little practice," she consoles, and he gives her a skeptical look that has her confessing, "Okay, a lot of practice. Here, let me."
Her hand positions his, this time separating index and pinkie from the middle two fingers and showing him, "These two move in first, and then the outer two follow, or you can do this instead," she moves them back to their original position, helping his pinkie curve in first, then his ring finger, middle, index and thumb. "If you go in order, it works, too."
He does it again, following her teachings, and his wrists still crack as they move, not used to the constant circling motion, but at least the movement doesn't look as terrible as it did the first time.
"See? You're getting the hang of it," she says, and the hint of pride in her voice does things to him.
"Yes, now I'm more like a crab than a lobster," he quips, and then laughs with her. It doesn't escape his notice that her hands are still holding onto his.
A man interrupts them then, saying something incredibly quick in Spanish, and it makes her frown, looking at the stage. Robin follows her gaze, finds that the other dancer has now finished her set.
"It's my turn," she explains, sliding off the stool and pausing right in front of him.
"Have a good show," he offers with a smile, and she leans in and kisses his cheek in thanks, her lips then tickling his earlobe as she whispers Regina.
It fits her, the name, embodies the image of mystery and poise and adventure he's found in her, and as she starts to walk away, red dress and flamenco heels carrying her to the stage where she belongs, he calls back, "You still owe me that drink."
Regina keeps her back to him, but pauses in her strides, and he can almost hear her smirk when she answers, "Yes, I suppose I do."