I dream of being a flamenco dancer, performing in an underground smoky bar in Sevilla, where round, lopsided tables, 5 or 6 no more, look ahead to a raised black stage.

And I, in a green dress with layers and layers of white ruffles, stomp my feet like a bull. Dark eyeliner would line my eyes with rings of sleepless torment, foundation makeup cracking my clenched forehead, lips smothered in dead raisins, lashes clumped in black mud.

My arms, soft from household, would flap to the heavy pounding of a stomping herd. Iíd penetrate the dark drunken audience with sudden turns snapping into frozen rage and stare through blissful eyes with urgent, violent, unspeakable passion.

Stomping, stomping, stomping out frustration, emotions rumbling over emotions just because Iíve too much Spanish emotion and need to boil, push the cork flying into the mouth of a senseless red haired clown watching agape. Iíd stop to rest my panting lungs, but the guitar would start up again and my feet, captured in a trance, would tap me across the stage. My hand, pulled by a string from above, would grab hold of my dress and lift countless layers of ruffles, a dark pair of legs, strapped tap heels, a quick, light tapping, faster, faster, harder to stomping out the beat that grips with claws around my heart.

Iíd snap my fingers hard and twirl my arms in fluid curls like Shiva destroying and creating, and call the muses to settle upon my shoulders, laughing in ecstasy, smiling, but only a second. Then Iíd embrace the Spanish flamenco soul, drive a knife through its back, beat against its chest, twirl away into a soft tapping repose catching my breath in long, heaving gasps. Start all over again, release from captivity all of passivity, burn, groan, kick, snarl, sweat and gleam.

Every Friday, Saturday and perhaps Wednesday nights Iíd break through the holding gates and storm the stage thinking, demanding, dueling the Flamenco.

On the other days I would wonder why my husband always had to dominate and could never relish a sincere moment of looking into each otherís eyes in a slow, gentle rhythm of love. Iíd do my laundry, stand on the scale, cut out coupons, talk superficially to relatives on the phone and wash the dishes after dinner.
But Iíd never betray the flamenco. Iíd wear my green dress to the grave.