Flamenco

I’m no Carmen. Well, I worked in the same factory and smoked the same cigarettes, even though I prefer cigarillos.

It’s just I could never flash my eyes and flirt like Carmen. People think I’m sulky, frumpy and nothing special. That I’ve got no ‘wow factor’ and of course I’ve never been a devotee of bull fighting. Definitely, no matador de toros, picadors, toreadors or rejoneadors for me.

My face won’t win any contest or a husband, but perhaps my feet will. I have the slim ankles of a dancer and express my emotions by tapping out my passion, clapping out anger with my skirts swirling, castanets clacking. I have no need to speak honeyed words, because words can be sharp as a sword, deadly as a dagger as Carmen found out. They fuel jealously and end in blood and murder.