When night comes in Madrid, the city wakes up.
The girl leaned across steel tables in the tapas bar, a few miles away from Puerta del Sol. Her teeth were sharp and white, her lips full of crimson. The glimmer on her glass of champagne reflected on her eyes; her ebony hair drooped down to her earlobes, the smoke escaping her nose swirling about.
She paid for the fish and left the man standing there, twitching her hips as she went. The cigarette was hanging out of her mouth. Her shoes tapped on the pavement, click, click, click, click, down the murky street towards the palace, towards the December fire.
Balls of fire! Aglow with rich red, they stood in the front—the smoke was deep, and the sweat on her forehead twinkled with the stars—huge spears stood in the grass, blazing the skies. People that were shivering just a minute before were now pushing their bodies to the fire until their faces turned a shade of cherry. The woman smiled the biggest smile before marching away from the lights, towards the café.
The beginning of the night was still not there, but the adrenaline was streaming through as she tip-toed into the restaurant.
She thrust the coat on the floor, poured all her clothes down, and grinned. She put on the scarlet dress, lipstick, all sorts of make-up, and finally the shoes, the raven, lustrous shoes.
She climbed onto the stage and watched as the people flooded in. Now was her chance—her dance—what she waited for all week!
The drums started, the men sang, the guitar was sobbing all over the parquet, the painting in the background shone with the candles ginger, and the three women rose up. Their shoes snapped against the floorboards, their eyes misty with the act—and then they started yelling, yelling like the African warriors, and they circled on the floor, tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, slow and then faster and faster, like blood their dresses faded in and out, in and out, a veil of lust, heel shoes hacking in the still air, darkness plugs inside their chests, they flamenco through the night, cheers, a standing ovation in such a crowded room is simply treacherous!
Then it stops. The place is completely silent. Everyone shakes hands, leaves. She rises too, undresses, puts on her coat, slithers her way and climbs up the hill to fetch a taxi back home.
What a night!
Every eleven it starts…but Madrid doesn’t end with morning.
